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AU/IAHYS  BOOK  FYND 


KING  OF  THE  AIR 

and  other  poems  by 

ELIZABETH  CHANDLEE  FORMAN 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE  GORHAM  PRESS 


Copyright,  1919,  by  Elizabeth  Chandlee  Formaw 


All  Rights  Reserved 


The  Three  Lads  appeared  in  the  London  Nation, 
Missing  in  The  Forum,  Cadorna's  Retreat  in  New  York 
Times,  Sea  of  Pearl  in  Bryn  Mawr  Alumnce  Quarterly, 
and  To  William  L.  Price,  Architect  in  Philadelphia 
Public  Ledger.  They  are  here  reproduced  through  the 
courtesy   of  these  publishers. 


Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


The  Gorham  Press,  Boston,  U.S.A. 


THIS  LITTLE  BOOK  I  OWE  IN  GRATITUDE 

TO  THE  INSPIRATION  OF  TWO 

WHO  LOVED  TRUTH  AND  CHERISHED  BEAUTY: 

MY  PARENTS 

DR.  HENRY  CHANDLEE 
ANNA  BETTERTON  CHANDLEE 

OF  BALTIMORE,  MARYLAND 


4701, 


CONTENTS 

POEMS  OF  THE  GREAT  WAR 

PAGE 

King  of  the  Air 9 

The  Three  Lads 11 

Missing 12 

Marching 13 

Song:     "  Soft  Wind,  Sweet  Wind  "     .      .  15 

The  Battalion  of  Death 16 

/  Cari  Morti 18 

"  When  the  Peace-Bells  Ring  "     .           .  20 

Cadorna's  Retreat 21 

Mother  and  Child 22 

The  Doves  of  Venice 24 

In  Dover  Town      .         26 

Monchy  —  Cambrai  —  St.  Quentin  —  La 

Fere 28 

Butterfly 29 

Field  Grey 30 

Gates  of  Amiens 32 

Victors! 34 

The  Turn  of  the  Tide 36 

Crossing 38 

The  Blue  Star  and  the  Gold    ....  39 
5 


Contents 


PAGE 

His  Last  Flight 40 

The  Bells  of  Victory 42 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Song  of  the  Mermaids  and  Mermen     .      .  47 

A  Child's  Fancy 48 

Sea  of  Pearl 49 

Joy     .      . 51 

Indian  Boat-Song 52 

Song:     "The  Sun  is  Striding  Through 

the  Sky  "... 53 

The  Old  Wind 54 

11  Not  Death  That  Most  Men  Dread  I 

Fear  " 56 

The  Voice  in  the  Fog 57 

"  Out  of  the  Years  and  the  Rain  "     .      .59 

Calm 60 

To  William  L.  Price,  Architect    .      .      .61 

Morning 63 

Firelight 64 

In  Camp 65 

Moonlight 66 

Song:     "  Thou  Art  the  Virile  Mountain 

Stream" 68 

The  Little  Grey  Lane 69 

Sonnet 7° 

One  Boy  Less 71 

6 


Contents 

PAGE 

The  Ships  of  Yesterday 72 

Song:     "  My  Love  is  Dear  to  Me  "      .      .  74 

The  River 75 

To  Henry 76 

"  When  the  Roses  Are  Dead  "  .      .      .     .78 

PROSE 

The  Old  Vase 81 

The  Child  in  the  Garden 82 

A  Soliloquy 85 

A  Storm 87 

A  Masked  Ball 88 

My  Childhood 90 

A  Farm 91 

A  Memory 93 

Death  in  the  House 95 

The  Message  of  a  Day 97 

The  Wolf  (A  Christmas  Tale)     .      .      .  100 

The  Moor-Birds 105 

France  to  the  Rescue  (A  True  Story  of 

the  Sea) 112 


POEMS  OF  THE  GREAT  WAR 


KING  OF  THE  AIR 

To  Lieutenant  Horace  B.  Forman  3rd,  \ 
U.  S.  Aviation  Service,  A.E.F.,  France/ 


Up  and  away,  from  behind  those  headlands  green, 

He  sails  his  ship  in  the  sky! 
Steady  and  keen  and  true,  with  majestic  mien 

He  sweeps  through  reaches  high. 
Now  he  floats  on  wide,  still  wings,  now  dips, 

And  drops  like  a  falling  star, 
Only  to  soar  again  to  the  highest  tips 

Of  mountain  peaks  afar. 

King  of  the  air  is  he  —  and  his  royal  train 

The  crimson  clouds  of  dawn. 
For  an  instant  he's  lost  in  a  purple  fringe  of  rain, 

Into  a  gold  mist  gone. 
His   bright   cloud-hosts   salute   him   with   fire   and 
thunder 

As  they  march  in  review  through  the  sky, 
So  that  the  humble  earth-folk  tremble  and  wonder 

At  the  clamor  and  glory  on  high. 

The  winds  are  his  trumpeters,  sounding  over  the  seas 

Their  clarions  loud  and  clear. 
At  his  crossing,   the  great  waves  chant  wild  har- 
monies 
For  his  listening  soul  to  hear. 
He  shames  the  birds  of  the  land  in  daring  and  grace, 

And  the  swift-winged  gulls  of  the  sea. 
In  splendid  heights  he  rides  with  the  sun  face  to 
face. 
A  strong,  bold  king  is  he! 
9 


King  of  the  Air 


King  of  the  air?  —  Nay,  king  of  the  world  is  he! 

Unbound  by  the  narrow  land 
He  swings  through  broad,  free  spaces.     The  tyran- 
nous sea 

Holds  not  with  her  iron  hand. 
And  his  joy  is  greater  than  anything  under  the  skies 

Felt  since  life  began  — 
For  he  joins  to  the  passionate  heart  of  the  bird  that 
flies, 

The  thinking  soul  of  a  man. 


Siasconset,  Mass.,  5  August,  1018. 


IO 


THE  THREE  LADS 

Down  the  road  rides  a  German  lad, 

Into  the  distance  grey. 
Straight  towards  the  north  as  a  bullet  flies, 
The  dusky  north  with  its  cold  sad  skies ; 
But  the  song  that  he  sings  is  merry  and  glad, 

For  he's  off  to  the  war  and  away. 
"  Then  hey!  for  our  righteous  king!  "  (he  cries) 
"  And  the  good  old  God  in  his  good  old  skies ! 
And  ho !  for  love  and  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  — 

For  I'm  off  to  the  war  and  away!  " 

Down  the  road  rides  a  Russian  lad, 

Into  the  distance  grey. 
Out  towards  the  glare  of  the  steppes  he  spurs, 
And  he  hears  the  wolves  in  the  southern  firs; 
But  the  song  that  he  sings  is  blithe  and  glad, 

For  he's  off  to  the  war  and  away. 
11  Then  hey!  for  our  noble  tzar!  "  (he  cries) 
"  And  liberty  that  never  dies ! 
And  ho !  for  love  and  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  — 

For  I'm  off  to  the  war  and  away!  " 

Down  the  road  rides  an  English  lad, 

Into  the  distance  grey. 
Through  the  murk  and  fog  of  the  river's  breath, 
Through  the  dank  dark  night  he  rides  to  his  death 
But  the  song  that  he  sings  is  gay  and  glad, 

For  he's  off  to  the  war  and  away. 
"  Then  hey!  for  our  honest  king!  "  (he  cries) 
"And  hey!  for  truth,  and  down  with  lies! 
And  ho !  for  love  and  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  — 

For  I'm  off  to  the  war  and  away!  " 

March,  191 5,  Baltimore,  Md. 
II 


MISSING 

(In  memory  of  Emilio  Delvivo,  an  officer  in  the  Italian 
army,  who  died  in  the  Trentino,  February,  1916,  for  his 
country.     He  was  just  twenty-two  years  old.) 

So,  it's  your  turn  to  go,  soldier,  my  soldier? 

"  Missing,"  just  "  missing,"  the  newspapers  say. 
Who  now  will  cherish  the  poor,  grey-haired  mother, 

Soldier,  my  soldier,  so  far  away? 

There  you  lie  out  on  the  cold,  wind-swept  mountain- 
side, 
Lost  in  a  lonely  grave  under  the  snow ; 
Just  like  the  other  lads  killed  for  their  country's 
sake! 
God  called  your  name,  too  —  you  had  to  go. 


Dear  little  son  of  mine,  soldier,  my  soldier, 

Such  round,  red  cheeks  you  had,  dimpled  and  gay! 

Soft  little  smiling  babe  close  to  my  bosom  pressed, 
What  warmth  of  life  was  yours  —  just  yesterday! 

The  world  will  forget  you,  soldier,  my  soldier, 
How  nobly  you  served  and  how  bravely  you  died ; 

Only  the  angels  in  heav'n  will  remember  — 

And  mother  —  dear  soldier,  with  love  and  with 
pride. 

March,  1016,  Haver  jord,  Pa. 
12 


MARCHING 

There's  a  marching  through  the  night, 

There's  a  ring  of  many  feet; 
There's  a  sense  of  quiet  might 

Felt  along  the  pulsing  street. 
And  through  pulsing  street  and  lane  — 

While  our  aching  hearts  are  dumb  — 
Keeping  time  to  beating  rain, 
Echo  fife  and  drum. 

There's  a  marching  through  the  day, 
There's  a  tramp  of  steady  feet: 

Boys  —  yours  and  mine  —  so  gay, 
Bravely  march  their  death  to  meet. 

Death  —  with  victory  so  dear  — 
Will  be  theirs  ere  set  of  sun. 

Bugles,  ring  the  triumph  clear, 
Battle  to  be  won! 

There's  a  marching  through  the  night, 
There's  a  press  of  many  feet: 

Back-tide  of  the  storm  and  fight 
Solemnly  doth  throb  and  beat. 

Throb  and  beat  and  vast  recoil 

Racks  the  whole  world's  tortured  breast. 

We,  the  women,  sweat  and  toil  — 
But  our  soldiers  rest. 


13 


King  of  the  Air 


There's  a  marching  through  the  day, 
There's  a  tramp  of  weary  feet : 

Little  children,  through  the  grey, 
Dragging  on  in  cold  and  heat.  .  . 

Victory!     Sound,  drum  and  fife! 
Trumpets  proud,  peal  every  one! 

We  have  given  the  best  in  life 
That  a  cause  be  won ! 


25  July,  1016,  Siasconset,  Nantucket. 


14 


SONG:     "SOFT  WIND,  SWEET  WIND" 

Soft  wind,  sweet  wind,  with  the  scent  of  red  wild 
rose, 
Blowing  swift  across  the  heather,  friend  to  wel- 
come me  — 
See!  my  hands  are  empty  of  the  blossoms  bright  I 
used  to  toss, 
And  my  heart  is  not  for  playing  by  the  singing 
sea. 

Soft  wind,  sweet  wind,  there's  another  field  I  know, 
Where  the  flowers  are  crushed,  and  there  are  sad, 
dread  things  to  see.  .  .  . 
When  another  summer  sun  flushes  all  the  moor  with 
bloom, 
Blow  my  soldier  safely  home  across  the  singing 
sea. 

8  July,  IQI7,  Siasconset,  Nantucket. 


15 


THE  BATTALION  OF  DEATH 

The  Russian  hosts  are  fleeing  before  their  mighty 

foe! 
They   are   scattered,   lost   and   helpless,    like   wild, 

wind-driven  snow, 
And  the  German  guns  are  bellowing  behind  them  as 

they  go. 

In  vain  the  Russian  cannon  let  forth  a  roar  of  scorn, 
And  pour  their  death  into  those  traitorous,  broken 

ranks  forlorn; 
No  power  can  stem  their  mad  retreat,  or  bind  vast 

armies  torn. 

The  citadel  is  taken  without  a  show  of  fight, 
And    the   Germans   throng   the  city.     There'll   be 

revelry  tonight, 
And  they'll  cheer  the  Russian  armies  for  their  das- 
tard, sorry  flight! 

Then  in  the  night  the  fortress-watch,  half  drowsing, 

is  aware 
Of    rumbling    of    swift    hoof-beats,    of    a    sudden 

trumpet's  blare; 
And  the  great  bell  peals  alarum,  bugles  call  and 

torches  flare. 


16 


King  of  the  Air 


There's  crash  of  hoofs  upon  the  stones  across  the 

city  square ! 
There's  fighting  demon-wild  tonight  —  shrill  cries 

upon  the  air; 
And  many  a  drunken  Hun  is  slain  on  threshold, 

bed  and  stair. 

But  those  who  worked  this  havoc  are  lying  still  and 

dead, 
Their  slender  limbs  all  twisted,  their  white  breasts 

stained  with  red, 
A  crown  of  dusty  clotted  hair  upon  each  comely 

head. 

The  women's  "  Death  Battalion  "  has  come  to  wipe 

away 
The  disgrace  of  Russia's  armies,  the  shame  of  this 

ill  day. 
And  saints  look  down,  all  reverent;  and  men  look  up 

and  pray. 

For  many  a  noble  spirit  from  home  and  hearthstone 

warm, 
Sweet  maid  and  wife  and  mother  —  each  well-loved, 

gentle  form, 
For  pride  of  race  —  for  Russia  —  lies  dead  in  the 

night  and  storm. 

O  Russia's  mighty  armies,  now  turn  and  make  a 

stand ! 
A  new  day  floods  the  sky  with  gold  and  brightens 

your  dark  land. 
Be  men,  for  love  of  Russia  —  and  this  brave  little 

band! 

August,  19 17,  River  St.  Lawrence. 
17 


/  CARI  MORTI1 

Far  away  over  the  wide,  wide  sea 

There's  a  village  small  I  know, 
Beside  a  lake  in  a  quiet  vale 

Where  storm-winds  never  blow; 

For  a  fortress  strong  girds  it  about 

With  rocky  peak  and  scaur. 
The  smooth  lake  lies  in  silence  deep 

And  hears  no  din  of  war. 

Upon  each  steep  and  terraced  slope 

Shine  out  the  plots  of  green; 
While  far  aloft  against  the  blue 

The  black  milch-goats  are  seen. 

The  long  lake  glimmers,  and  the  firs 
Stand  watching,  straight  and  still. 

The  mountain  torrents  rush  along 
To  turn  the  droning  mill. 

It  is  a  peaceful,  homely  scene 

When  dark-blue  shadows  fall, 
And  the  mill-wheel  stops,  and  the  goats  file  home 

At  the  goat-girl's  wild,  clear  call. 

1  "  The  Dear  Dead."  In  a  little  village  of  the  Trentino, 
a  church-bell  tolls  every  night,  and  the  peasants  say  "per 
i  cari  morti." 


18 


King  of  the  Air 


From  mountain  pastures  up  above, 

With  loads  of  fresh-mown  hay 
The  dogs  drag  down  their  wooden  sleds. 

Rough  children  shout  and  play. 

There's  a  clatter  of  clogs  on  the  noisy  stones 

To  the  chapel  in  the  square, 
Where  grey  walls  echo  an  old  priest's  chant, 

And  vapors  scent  the  air. 

Down  drops  the  dark  and  the  lights  go  out 

Like  sleepy  eyes  that  close. 
The  town  and  the  lake  and  the  guarding  crags 

Are  locked  in  deep  repose. 

But  suddenly  the  still  night  wakes 

At  the  call  of  a  deep,  slow  bell, 
That  beats  the  air  with  solemn  strokes : 

It  tolls  the  dead  men's  knell. 

It  calls  and  calls  to  the  dear,  lost  dead, 

It  clamors  in  wild,  wild  pain. 
Its  dirge  peals  out  across  the  lake, 

And  the  hills  sob  back  again. 

It  mourns  and  mourns  for  the  dear,  lost  dead  — 

Do  the  living  people  heed  ?  — 
It  prays  for  the  men  who  still  must  die, — 

For  the  wounded,  in  their  need. 

That  little  village  far  away 

Where  storm-winds  never  blow, 
Has  its  own  throb  of  bitter  pain, 

Its  share  of  the  great  world's  woe. 

August,  1917,  River  St.  Lawrence. 
19 


11  WHEN  THE  PEACE-BELLS  RING 

Do  you  mind  the  cottage,  brother, 

Where  the  mother  raised  us  boys, 
And  October  chestnuts  roasting, 

And  the  simple,  homely  joys? 
You'll  be  tramping  back,  my  brother, 

At  the  calling  of  the  spring, 
And  right  glad  will  be  your  welcome  home 

When  the  peace-bells  ring. 

Do  you  mind  the  little  village 

From  the  top  of  our  big  hill 
In  the  damp,  sweet  summer  evenings 

When  the  fields  are  dim  and  still, 
And  the  lights  of  home  are  shining, 

And  the  sleepy  crickets  sing? 
You'll  see  them  all  again,  brother  — 

When   the   peace-bells   ring. 

Do  you  mind  how  Joan  and  Mary 

Waved  us  both  a  brave  goodbye? 
And  the  pretty  flowers  they  gave  us, 

And  the  bright  blue  morning  sky? 
You'll  be  marching  back  to  greet  them 

At  the  calling  of  the  spring.  .  .  . 
But  I'll  be  on  a  far,  far  road  — 

When  the  peace-bells  ring. 

1  October,  igiy,  Haverford,  Pa. 
20 


CADORNA'S  RETREAT 

Cold  and  weary,  with  sick,  dazed  brains, 
Lashed  and  numbed  by  freezing  rains, 
Fiercely  pressed  by  the  German  bands  — 
And  little  to  fight  with  but  poor,  bare  hands  — 
Italy's  armies,  crazed  with  pain, 
Run  for  their  lives  on  the  Lombard  plain! 

Only  a  little  time  ago 
They  scaled  vast  heights  of  frozen  snow, 
Their  stout  hearts  braved  iced  peak  and  crest, 
Their  arms  were  reaching  towards  Trieste. 
Strong  souls,  they  strove  with  might  and  main  — 
But  now  they  die  on  the  Lombard  plain! 

What  men  could  do,  they  did.     But  they 
Were  flesh  and  blood.     Their  lips  were  grey 
With  deadly  cold.     They  had  prayed  in  need 
For  guns  —  more  guns  —  but  who  gave  heed  ? 
They  had  called  to  friends  for  help  in  vain  — 
So  they  fought  with  their  hands  on  the  Lombard 
plain. 

Great-hearted  lads  of  Italy's  lands, 

Doing  your  best  with  your  plucky  hands, 

Hammered  and  bent  by  a  brutal  foe  — 

We  hail-  you  heroes,  wherever  you  go, 

And  the  world  with  plaudits  will  ring  again 

When  you  make  your  stand  on  the  Lombard  plain ! 

30  October,  iqij,  Haverford,  Pa. 
21 


MOTHER  AND  CHILD 

"  Mother,  I  see  your  face  again, 

And  your  hair  shines  white  by  the  lamp ! ' 

"  Son,  I  dream  thou  liest  in  pain 

Through  the  night  and  the  bitter  damp!  " 

"  Mother,  why  are  your  brown  locks  gone, 
And  the  smile  in  your  clear,  kind  eyes  ?  " 

"  Son,  I  dream  thou  diest  alone 
In  a  stark  field  under  the  skies!  " 

"  Mother,  I'm  like  a  child  that's  lost  — 

I  fear  the  wind  in  the  cloud !  " 
11  Son,  I  dream  that  the  fine  grey  frost 

Covers  thee  close  in  a  shroud." 

"  Mother,  there's  a  wolf  in  the  muttering  pines, 
And  a  great  bird  circles  above !  " 

"  Son,  I  dream  of  the  moonflower  vines 
On  the  eve  when  I  first  knew  love." 

"  Mother,  there's  pain,  O  Mother,  there's  pain ! 

Help  me,  angels  of  grace !  " 
"  Son,  I  dream  of  my  soul's  rich  gain, 

And  the  sun  on  thy  new-born  face." 


22 


King  of  the  Air 


11  Mother,  O  mother,  I  see  a  light, 
And  you  in  a  dress  of  gold !  " 

"  Son,  in  Paradise  this  night 
Thee  in  my  arms  I'll  fold." 

"  Mother,  I  hear  a  singing  voice, 

A  melody  sweet  and  wild !  " 
11  Son,  it  is  time  —  thy  hand  —  rejoice!  " 

(The  mother  folds  her  child.) 

November,  1917,  Haverford,  Pa. 


23 


THE  DOVES  OF  VENICE 

In  simple  majesty  it  stands  —  the  church  of  good 
Saint  Mark! 
Bronze   roof   and   gilded   minaret   shine   by   the 
watching  moon; 
But  on  the  silent  water-ways  the  palaces  are  dark: 
Their  empty  windows  dully  stare  into  the  waste 
lagoon. 

The  bare  Piazza  echoes  with  the  sobbing  of   the 
tide. 
The  lordly  house  of  all  the  Doges  waits,  serene 
and  proud. 
The  ancient  Orologio  looks  calmly  down  beside 
The  old  church-wall;  but  through  its  arch  there 
flows  no  merry  crowd. 

And  do  we  think  of  other  times,  when  all  the  stately 
square 
Would  ring  with  music  when  the  band  played 
waltz  or  barcarolle, 
And  we  would  sit  at  Florian's,   and   dream,   and 
linger  there  ?  — 
The    moon    about    San    Marco's    dome    would 
wreathe  an  aureole. 


24 


King  of  the  Air 


And  can  we  still  remember  the  doves  —  their  happy 
flight 
From  windy  Campanile  and  shadowy  recess  ?  — 
They    flashed    like   messengers   of    joy    across    the 
summer  night 
To  bring  fresh  hope  to  tired  hearts,  to  comfort 
and  to  bless. 

And  still  they  flit  serenely  from  dome  to  belfry- 
tower. 
They  do  not  heed  the  sound  of  guns,  the  tramp 
of  marching  men. 
From  spires  aloft  their  watch  they  keep,  and  see  the 
storm-clouds  lower 
With  fearless  eyes,  with  faith  supreme,  unknow- 
ing sin  or  pain. 

O  faithful  doves,  at  some  wild  dawn  where  shelter 
could  you  find  ? 
Men's  violence  would  wound  your  tender  hearts, 
your  gentle  eyes!  .  .  . 
They  do  not  fear,  they  only  trust ;  their  thoughts  are 
always  kind  — 
And  they  shall  eat  from  angels'  hands  in  peaceful 
Paradise ! 

May,  IQ/8,  Haverford,  Pa. 


25 


IN  DOVER  TOWN 

(March  21,  1918) 

There's  a  wild  gust  sweeping  through  Dover  town 
It  bellows  and  shrieks  over  meadow  and  down. 
It  tears  the  blossoming  fronds  of  the  trees, 
It  sears  the  flowers  and  kills  the  bees. 
Swarming  storm-clouds  mutter  and  frown  — 
And  a  fierce  gale  leaps  through  Dover  town. 

Doors  and  windows  clatter  and  shake. 
A  great  fight's  forward,  the  Huns  are  awake! 
Reverberations  of  man-made  thunder 
Fill  shuddering  earth  and  sea  with  wonder. 
Mists  of  battle  come  scudding  down 
On  the  throbbing  walls  of  Dover  town. 

Off  to  the  east  where  thunder  crashes, 
The  sea  is  lit  with  scarlet  flashes. 
Those  red  streaks  threading  the  smoky  pall 
Mark  where  our  brave  lads  fight  —  and  fall. 
Across  the  trembling  tides  of  brown 
The  war-fires  flicker  on  Dover  town. 


26 


King  of  the  Air 


Down  on  the  quaj^s  pale  women  wait 

Silently  at  the  grim  sea's  gate. 

With  eager  eyes  they  search  the  grey 

For  the  first  dim  ship  from  over  the  way 

That  shall  bring  them  back,  as  night  steals  down, 

What  once  were  men  —  to  Dover  town. 

Ah,  youth !  in  the  scorching  flame  of  guns, 
Matching  your  skill  with  the  might  of  the  Huns, 
Testing  your  mettle  and  power  and  nerve, 
Giving  up  body  and  spirit,  to  serve  — 
You    have    baffled    praise,    you    have    shamed    re- 
nown! .  .  . 
Then  fling  out  brave  banners,  O  Dover  town! 

March,  1018,  Haverford,  Pa. 


27 


MONCHY  —  CAMBRAI  —  ST.  QUENTIN 
—  LA  FERE 

(Palm  Sunday,  March  24,  1918) 

Even  this  awful  hour  must  have  an  ending, 
Even  those  iron  frames  must  falter,  fail. 

A  mightier  hand  than   theirs  will  clasp  and  hold 
them, 
And  nature  will  prevail. 

The  thunder  of  their  cannon  shakes  the  ages  — 
A  thousand  thousand  belch  their  scorching 
breath  — 

But  on  the  seared  field  brother  calls  to  brother, 
And  foe  is  friend  in  death. 

The  golden  dawn  will  brighten  their  dark  meadows, 
The   pitying    spring   will    smooth    their    scarred 
plain, 
And  nature's  yearning  heart  will  ease,  with  blos- 
soms, 
The  memory  of  their  pain; 

And  in  some  happier  age,  this  agony 

Of  earth  and  beast  and  man,  this  battle  old, 

Will  seem,  to  children  by  the  fireside  playing, 
A  story  that  is  told: 

A  story  of  great  deeds  and  valiant  peoples, 
An  epic  where  our  noblest  live  again, 

A  glad  and  mighty  hymn  that  sings  forever 
Their  joy  —  without  their  pain. 

March,  1918,  Haverford,  Pa. 
28 


BUTTERFLY 

Come,  little  butterfly,  out  into  the  sunshine, 

In  the  yellow  sunshine,  where  the  daisies  dance ! 
Come   and   play   with   me   awhile   on   the   smooth 
meadow. 
(Rough    and    bleak    the    meadows    in    far-off 
France ! ) 

Here  by  this  apple-tree  (fallen  are  the  blossoms) 
Somebody  kissed  me  —  just  awhile  ago. 

Breezes  strewed  the  pink  and  white  apple-blooms 
about  us, 
Tossed  the  lithe  branches  gaily  to  and  fro. 

Here  by  this  apple-tree  —  hark !  pretty  butterfly  — 
Two  strong  arms  I  felt,  a  warm,  warm  cheek, 

And  a  heart  that  throbbed  so  wildly  —  listen,  merry 
butterfly ! 
(A  grave  away  in  France  is  far,  far  to  seek!) 

Come,  little  butterfly,  out  into  the  sunshine, 

In  the  yellow  sunshine,  while  the  summer  lasts. 
Soon  comes  bitter  cold,  and  long  nights,  and  widow- 
hood. .  .  . 
Come  and  play  with  me  awhile  before  the  winter- 
blasts! 

March,  IQi8,  Haver ford,  Pa. 
29 


FIELD  GREY 

(25  March,  1918.     Before  Amiens  and  Arras,  after  five 
days  of  battle.) 

Field  grey,  and  field  grey, 
On,  close-packed,  they  stream  all  day. 
Mow  them  down,  mow  them  down, 
Mix  them  with  the  earth  so  brown. 
Scorch  them  with  our  flaming  guns, 
Target  fair  —  a  million  Huns ! 
Field  grey,  and  field  grey  — 
Wither  them  away! 

Field  grey,  and  field  grey, 
Let  them  hear  our  shrapnel  play ! 
Cut  them  low,  cut  them  low, 
We  treat  weeds  and  Boches  so. 
Root  them  out  with  sharpest  guns, 
Target  fair  —  a  million  Huns ! 
Field  grey,  and  field  grey  — 
Scatter  them  away! 

Field  grey,  and  field  grey, 
Forward  still  they  pour  all  day, 
Falling  'neath  our  gunshots,  crying, 
Gasping,  sweating,  bleeding,  dying. 
Bold  shock-troops,  with  fife  and  drum, 
On  and  on  and  on  they  come; 
Swinging  on  with  tireless  feet, 
Light  and  supple,  strong  and  fleet, 
Bounding  on  with  eager  breath, 
Surging  on  to  certain  death. 
30 


King  of  the  Air 


Field  grey,  and  field  grey, 
Oh,  the  pity  of  this  day! 
Atoms  in  a  maelstrom  wild, 
Hardly  more,  each,  than  a  child, 
Who  can  blame  them,  loyal,  strong, 
For  a  system  that's  all  wrong? 
They  are  but  the  helpless  tools 
Of  a  pack  of  monstrous  fools ! 

But  we  cannot  let  them  pass! 
They  must  stain  the  springing  grass. 
They,  who  are  the  sport  of  fate, 
Shall  not  pass  —  we  hold  the  gate! 
With  our  banners  streaming  high, 
We,  too,  know  the  way  to  die ! 

Field  grey,  and  field  grey, 
Pressing  onward,  night  and  day  — 
Mow  them  down,  mow  them  down, 
Mix  them  with  the  earth  so  brown, 
Stay  them  with  our  puissant  guns  — 
Valiant  striplings,  boy-Huns! 
Field  grey,  and  field  grey, 
Shall  not  pass  this  way! 

March,  ioi8,  Haverford,  Pa. 


31 


GATES  OF  AMIENS 

For  the  honor  of  your  flag, 

Hold  them,  gates  of  Amiens! 
Though  your  timbers  strain  and  sag, 

Hold  them,  gates  of  Amiens! 
Hold  them  for  your  country's  pride, 
For  the  heroes  who  have  died, 
And  for  liberty  world-wide  — 
Soldier-gates  of  Amiens! 

Throbbing  bars  of  flesh  and  blood, 
Hold  them,  gates  of  Amiens! 

Now  the  war-tide  is  at  flood. 
(Hold  them,  gates  of  Amiens!) 

Soon   their  fierce  war-lust  will  fail, 

And  their  savage  hearts  will  quail. 

Right  and  courage  must  prevail  — 
Dauntless  gates  of  Amiens! 

Though  with  unimagined  might 
(Hold  them,  gates  of  Amiens!) 

They  assail  you  day  and  night, 
(Hold  them,  gates  of  Amiens!) 

And  the  rivers  all  run  red, 

Choking  with  their  thousands  dead  — 

Always  finer  draws  fate's  thread. 
(Hold  them,  gates  of  Amiens!) 


32 


King  of  the  Air 


For  your  city's  steeples,  towers, 
Hold  them,  gates  of  Amiens ! 
For  its  fountains  and  its  flowers, 
Hold  them,  gates  of  Amiens! 
For  a  little  child  to  play 
Safe  and  joyous  on  its  way  — 
Hold  them,  hold  them  night  and  day, 
Gallant  gates  of  Amiens ! 

Welded  firm,  with  nerves  of  steel, 

Hold  them,  gates  of  Amiens ! 
Hearken  to  the  world's  appeal! 
Hold  them,  gates  of  Amiens ! 
And  the  glad,  exultant  bell 
In  Time's  belfry-tower  shall  tell 
How  you  held  surpassing  well, 
Noble  gates  of  Amiens! 

March,  1918,  Haver ford,  Pa. 


33 


VICTORS! 

(24  June,  1918) 

Hail  to  the  conquerors!     Crown  them  with  bay! 
Italy's  armies  are  victors  today! 
Stout-hearted,  strong-handed,  dashing  and  bold, 
They've  driven  their  foes  out  of  every  stronghold. 
They  rule  the  Piave  from  mountain  to  sea. 
Then  hail  to  the  soldiers  of  brave  Italy! 

Like  an  avalanche  sweeping  from  mountain  to  plain, 

The  Austrian  hordes  had  assaulted  amain! 

But  their  strong  ranks  were  broken,  their  units  fell 

fast, 
Their  legions  were  bended  like  trees  in  a  blast. 
Austria's  armies,  bleeding  and  blind, 
Whirled  and  fled  like  leaves  in  the  wind ! 

Silent,  pale  Venice,  now  sing  and  be  glad ! 

The  fierce  bands  are  fleeing  —  no  loot  have  they 

had! 
The  pearls  on  thy  bosom  shall  never  be  theirs, 
And  safe  thy  white  doves  shall  breathe  thy  soft  airs, 
For  the  great  robber-armies  are  routed  this  day. — 
Then  call  from  thy  belfries  and  bid  men  to  pray ! 


34 


King  of  the  Air 


Hail  to  the  conquerors!     Crown  them  with  bay! 

Tower,  castello,  flaunt  banners  today ! 

Florence,  Ravenna,  Verona  and  Rome, 

Make  ready  to  welcome  your  noble  sons  home! 

They  have  won  the  world's  honor  from  sea  to  far 

sea. 
Then  hail  to  the  heroes  of  brave  Italy ! 

26  June,  1018,  Haverford,  Pa. 


35 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE 

(The  Great  German  Retreat,  July  18-     ) 

The  tide  that  was  at  flood  now  turns. 
While  breakers  toss  their  crests  on  high 
And  reach  out  hungry  arms,  the  sky 

With  amber  dawn-light  glows  and  burns. 

A  new  day  gilds  each  seething  wave. 
The  tide  has  turned.     A  force  unseen 
Presses  the  charging  hosts  of  green 

That  wildly  clamor,  vainly  rave. 

And  like  this  tide,  another  turns  — 
A  tide  of  horses,  men  and  guns. 
Oh,  slow  and  thick  the  red  Marne  runs 

Past  slimy  mosses,  clotted  ferns. 

Back  over  ruined  meadow,  town 

Smirched  by  its  track,  the  foul  tide  flows. 

It  finds  no  beauty:  each  garden  rose 
Was  long  since  torn  and  trampled  down. 

It  finds  no  shelter:  the  homesteads  dark 
Stand  roofless  'neath  a  smoke-stained  sky 
Where  bloated  vultures  wheel  and  cry. 

The  fields  are  heaped  with  corpses  stark. 


36 


King  of  the  Air 


Back  rolls  the  tide  through  the  heavy  weather 
O'er  bodies  of  boys  and  dead  old  men. 
Shuddering,  moaning  with  horror  and  pain 

The  living  and  dying  drift  back  together. 

Woe  and  death  on  the  dark  crests  ride 

As  they  flood  the  world.  .  .  .  But  I  dreamed  this 

night 
From  Heaven  there  stretched  a  hand  of  light 

Which  stilled  forever  the  rolling  tide. 

SI  July,  1918,  Siasconset,  Nantucket. 


37 


CROSSING 

All  through  a  summer  afternoon 

Strange-tinted  troop-ships,  seaward  bound, 

File  past  the  island  light;  grim,  grey, 
Their  convoys  press  them  round. 

They  seek  no  dark,  concealing  fog 
To  hide  them  on  their  open  way. 

The  sky  is  bright.     They  feel  no  dread 
Of  those  who  lurk  for  prey. 

All  through  a  summer  night  they  pass, 

Sending  across  the  level  tide 
Flash  following  on  flash,  to  show 

How  all  in  safety  ride. 

And  many  and  many  another  night 
They'll  swing  across  the  surging  deep, 

Tossed  by  the  winds  and  stormy  seas, 
While  we  in  quiet  sleep. 

And  many  and  many  another  night, 
Their  hearts  unshaken,  on  they'll  go, 

Knowing  no  fear,  with  will  intent 
To  meet  a  deadlier  foe. 

Nor  fear  must  we  who  watch  them  stream 

So  boldly,  gallantly  to  sea. 
God  guides  them  through  the  storm  and  dark 

That  cross  to  set  men  free. 

Siasconset,  Nantucket,  Mass.,  8  August,  1918. 

38 


THE  BLUE  STAR  AND  THE  GOLD  1 

He  did  not  linger  and  wait 

For  his  country  to  see  the  right! 
He  went  as  a  volunteer  to  France 

When  we  said  it  wasn't  our  fight. 
And  into  the  great  war-game, 

Not  counting  nor  heeding  the  cost, 
He  threw  the  strength  of  his  splendid  youth ; 

He  played  with  death  —  and  lost ! 

The  blue  star  high  in  our  window 

Is  stained  and  old  and  dim ; 
We'll  make  it  dazzling-bright  today 

With  gold  —  to  honor  him. 
The  years  may  dull  the  symbol 

Our  eager  hands  have  made  — 
But  the  star  of  love  on  the  flag  of  our  hearts 

Is  gold  that  cannot  fade. 

Haver  j  or  d,  Pa.,  21  October,  1918. 

1  In  loving  recognition  of  our  son, 
Lieutenant  Horace  B.  Forman  3rd, 
of  the  U.  S.  Aviation  Service,  A.E.F.,  who  for  a  year 
and  a  half  served  as  a  volunteer  with  the  French  and 
American  armies  abroad.  He  died  in  France  the  four- 
teenth day  of  September,  1918,  aged  twenty-four  years. 
In  the  words  of  his  former  French  captain  (Capitaine 
Robert,  Centre  d'Instruction  des  Eleves  Aspirants,  Issou- 
dun) :  "  II  est  tombe  en  brave  au  champ  d'honneur,  pour 
la  France." 

39 


HIS  LAST  FLIGHT 

Up  to  the  azure  sky  he  flew, 

So  straight  and  sure,  so  swift  and  true, 

Away,  away, 

On  wings  of  grey  — 
With  a  joy  we  never  knew. 

He  loved  old  earth  in  this  autumn-time ; 
But  his  fine,  free  spirit  bade  him  climb 

Up  and  away, 

On  wings  of  grey, 
To  a  higher  air  and  clime. 

He  lived  and  felt,  in  one  short  span, 
All  joys  that  fall  to  the  lot  of  a  man. 

Away,  away, 

On  wings  of  grey, 
A  gay,  wild  course  he  ran! 


And  then  one  day  when  life  flowed  strong 

In  his  bold  young  heart,  with  a  laugh  and  a  song, 

Away,  away, 

On  wings  of  grey, 
He  sailed  the  skies  along, 


40 


King  of  the  Air 


Till  he  came  to  a  gap  in  the  azure  bright 
He  darted  through,  he  sped  from  sight ! 

Away,  away, 

On  wings  of  grey, 
He  soared  on  his  last  glad  flight. 

How  full,  how  rich  such  life,  to  fly  — 
For  a  pure  ideal  —  right  up  to  the  sky, 

Away,  away, 

On  wings  of  grey  — 
And  gloriously  to  die! 

25  October,  1918,  Haver  ford,  Pa. 


41 


THE  BELLS  OF  VICTORY 

In  the  still,  cold  night  a  message  came 
That  kindled  our  land  to  leaping  flame: 
11  A  truce  is  signed  —  the  fighting's  done  - 
The  last  shot  fired  —  the  great  war  won ! 
From  eastern  shore  to  western  sea 
Shout  forth  the  bells  of  victory ! 

We  hear  the  solemn  music  break 
From  dusky  hill  and  sombre  lake, 
Dim  way-side  chapel,  minster  tall, 
Dark  ships  within  the  harbor-wall : 
The  bells  proclaim  with  wild  applause 
The  winning  of  a  mighty  cause! 

Earth  trembles,  and  the  shadowy  air 
Quivers  with  volley  and  trumpet's  blare, 
Horn,  whistle,  siren,  bugle,  drum! 
We  try  to  cheer  —  our  lips  are  dumb : 
Too  sound  they  sleep  across  the  sea 
To  hear  our  bells  of  victory! 

Friend  and  foe  alike  they  rest 

In  shallow  ditches,  breast  to  breast. 

Their  bloody  toil  and  pain  are  done; 

They  sleep  forever  —  while  the  sun 

Up-rises  on  a  world  new-born 

In  peace,  this  holy  autumn  morn. 


42 


King  of  the  Air 


We  hear  afar  the  thrones  crash  down  — 
Gaunt  famine  wail  from  town  to  town  — 
And  haughty,  ruined  nations'  cries 
For  mercy!  —  Did  they  mercy  prize?  — 
Downward  he  falls  —  the  blind,  lost  Hun : 
No  place  for  him  in  the  golden  sun! 

But  for  that  band  that  barred  the  way 

In  Belgian  fields,  one  summer  day  — 

Those  peerless  troops  of  France  who  died  — 

Contemptibles,  the  flower  and  pride 

Of  England  —  Gallant  Italy.  .  .  . 

And  those  who  bridged  a  vast,  strong  sea  — 

Heroic  dead  beneath  the  grass 
Who  brought  this  miracle  to  pass, 
This  first  day  of  a  thousand  years 
Of  peace  —  we've  reverence  and  tears. 
They  gave  themselves  to  make  men  free: 
Great  souls  who  won  this  victory! 

A  glory  lies  on  autumn  hills ! 

The  solemn  paean  swells  and  thrills! 

Strong  winds  sweep  down  November  skies  — 

And  on  the  world  a  glory  lies ; 

While  through  our  hearts  peal  full  and  free, 

Transcendent  bells  of  victory ! 

//  November,  zqi8,  Haver  ford,  Pa. 


43 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


SONG  OF  THE  MERMAIDS  AND 
MERMEN 

You  can  hear  the  breakers  booming  up  above, 
With  a  dash  and  crash  and  roar  upon  the  shore ; 

Oh,  the  onward,  surging,  heaving  tide  we  love, 
As  it  foams  along  with  mighty  rush  and  roar. 

There's  a  wild  and  gladsome  madness  in  the  waves, 
And  the  merry  dancing  combers  crested  white; 

There's  a  joy  to  dive  and  splash  among  the  caves, 
And  to  hear  the  gale  a-howling  in  the  night. 

Then  we'll  swim  and  leap  away  through  the  spray, 
And  we'll  sport  among  the  wonders  of  the  deep ; 

Up  on  earth  their  hearts  are  sad  —  but  ours  are  gay, 
For  the  sea's  eternal  youth  we  ever  keep ! 


47 


A  CHILD'S  FANCY 

All  around  the  house  it  goes; 

It  drags  its  feet  across  the  grass; 
It  shakes  the  panes,  it  creaks  the  door  — 

Yet  I  can  never  see  it  pass. 
It  scrapes  and  rustles  'gainst  the  wall ; 

It  moves  the  filmy  curtains  white; 
Upon  the  stair  I  hear  it  fall ; 

It  slides  across  the  floor  at  night. 

Yes,  all  night  long  it  creeps  about 

The  house  —  and  yet  it's  not  the  wind, 
For  wind  can  moan,  and  it  is  dumb. 

It  gropes  and  slips  —  it  must  be  blind. 
Nor  is  it  swish  of  swirling  leaves, 

Or  crackle  of  some  old  dead  bough. 
It's  just  not  anything  at  all.  .  .  . 

But  listen  —  you  can  hear  it  now ! 

And  all  the  day  it  bends  and  sways 

The  hollyhocks  beside  the  wall; 
It  mounts  the  roof  with  shuffling  steps ; 

It  slams  the  shutter  in  the  hall. 
Indeed  I  don't  know  what  it  is  — 

It  isn't  dog,  or  cat,  or  mouse.  .  .  . 
And  I'll  be  glad  when  it  is  gone  — 

This  thing  that  goes  around  the  house! 


48 


SEA  OF  PEARL 

Sea  of  pearl,  with  thy  rainbow  splendor 

Misted  over  with  veils  of  spray, 
Glimmering  sea,  all  rosy  and  tender, 

Fresh  in  the  shine  of  the  new  spring  day, 
Sea  of  pearl, 
Sea  of  pearl, 
What  dost  thou  bring  to  the  heart  of  a  girl  ? 

"A  sparkle  of  light  and  a  ripple  of  laughter; 

A  sprinkle  of  foam  on  the  breeze  of  the  spring; 
A  little  kiss  —  with  a  rainbow  after  — 
A  belt  of  coral,  a  golden  ring.  .  .  . 
Sea  of  pearl, 
Sea  of  pearl, 
This  do  I  bring  to  the  heart  of  a  girl." 

Sea  of  pearl,  all  grey  in  the  gloaming, 

Flecked  with  gleams  of  shimmering  light, 
Through  thy  brightness  the  dusk  is  roaming, 
Over  thy  beauty  looms  the  night. 
Sea  of  pearl, 
Sea  of  pearl, 
What  dost  thou  bring  to  the  heart  of  a  girl? 


49 


King  of  the  Air 


"  A  shell  brimful  of  tears  do  I  give  her; 

A  wreath  of  dark  sea-weeds  forlorn ; 
My  passionate  surge  in  her  breast  forever 
The  throb  of  ages  yet  unborn.  .  .  . 
Sea  of  pearl, 
Sea  of  pearl, 
This  do  I  bring  to  the  heart  of  a  girl." 


50 


JOY 

Joy!  for  the  frolicking  wind  comes  rollicking 

Over  the  bare,  brown  hill. 
The  dead  leaves  swirl  and  dance  and  whirl ; 
Gay  flags  of  cloud  the  skies  unfurl 

To  welcome  the  morning  chill. 

Oh,  I  am  away  with  joy  today 

Beneath  the  wild,  free  blue! 
My  swift  feet  run  the  hills  upon, 
And  the  whole  world's  filled  with  the  wind  and  the 
sun, 

The  wind  and  the  sun  .  .  .  and  you ! 


51 


INDIAN  BOAT-SONG 

Onward  rushes  the  river  stream, 

(Row,  my  brothers,  on  bending  oar!) 

Ruddy  and  wild  in  the  red  moon's  gleam ; 
Hark!  the  waves  on  the  rocky  shore! 
(Row,  my  brothers,  on  bending  oar!) 

Where  is  my  love,  O  whither  away? 

(Row,  my  brothers,  on  bending  oar!) 
She  floats  in  the  marsh-mist  curling  grey, 

Her  voice  shrills  in  the  breakers'  roar. 

(Row,  my  brothers,  on  bending  oar!) 

My  love,  she  sings  in  the  whistling  wind ; 

(Row,  my  brothers,  on  bending  oar!) 
Her  kiss  is  sweet,  her  smile  is  kind; 

She  waits  for  me  when  day  is  o'er. 

(Row,  my  brothers,  on  bending  oar!) 

Across  the  dark  she  calls  to  me ; 

(Row,  my  brothers,  on  bending  oar!) 
Her  eyes  shine  wild  from  rock  and  tree; 

Her  face  gleams  white  from  the  river-floor. 

(Row,  my  brothers,  on  bending  oar!) 

I  see  her  near,  I  feel  her  breath; 

(Row,  my  brothers,  on  bending  oar!) 
My  dearest  love,  her  name  is  Death.  .  .  . 

Oh,  fierce  the  rapids  rush  and  roar! 

(Row,  my  brothers,  on  bending  oar!) 
52 


SONG 

The  sun  is  striding  through  the  sky  — 

And  strongly  on  strides  he; 
The  warm  sweet  breezes  shout  for  joy 

And  kiss  the  blossomed  tree. 
My  sleeping  soul  awakes  again, 

And  sings  —  for  love  of  thee. 

The  sky  is  all  ablaze  with  light ; 

The  birds  sing  shrill  with  glee ; 
The  meadows  shine  with  new  fresh  flowers, 

Bluebell,  anemone. 
My  quiet  heart  unfolds  anew, 

And  blooms  —  for  love  of  thee. 

The  strong  sun  clasps  the  tender  west; 

The  stars  steal  out  to  see; 
To  rest  goes  every  happy  flower, 

Each  butterfly  and  bee. 
Once  more  my  spirit  looks  to  heaven, 

And  prays  —  for  love  of  thee. 


53 


THE  OLD  WIND 

The  wind  is  gay  and  strong  tonight 

As  he  sings  upon  the  sea, 
And  joins  in  the  merry  dance 

Of  moonbeams,  wild  and  free. 

In  mad  caprice  he  leaps  to  land 

And  runs  along  the  shore, 
Springs  up  the  cliff  with  lusty  shout, 

And  darts  across  the  moor. 

He  rushes  down  the  village  street 
And  calls,  "  Come  out  with  me!  " 

He  shakes  the  doors,  he  raps  the  panes, 
And  tries  the  folks  to  see. 

The  old-folks  gather  round  the  stoves, 
With  crutch,  footstool  and  cane; 

They  huddle  close  and  whisper,  "  There's 
That  old  wind  home  again. 

"  We  think  he's  dead  and  gone  —  and  then 

He's  back  across  the  moors, 
And  makes  our  sagging  rafters  creak, 

And  shakes  our  shrunken  doors; 


54 


King  of  the  Air 


11  And  knocks  our  tottering  chimneys  down, 
And  tears  our  neat  wood-bind, 

And  makes  our  driftwood  fires  smoke ;  — 
Away,  away,  old  wind !  " 

The  old  wind  laughs,  and  slaps  the  panes, 

And  capers  in  the  street; 
Then  bounds  across  the  shining  moors 

With  footsteps  light  and  fleet. 

"  Ha,  ha!  "  he  jeers,  "  Then  what  care  I? 

Alone  I'll  dance  and  sing. 
But  I'll  torment  those  mortals  old 

With  nip,  and  pinch,  and  sting!  " 

So  through  the  world  he  mocking  goes  — 

But  cold  and  lone  goes  he ; 
For  nothing  but  the  strange  old  moon 

Dares  bear  him  company. 


55 


■  NOT  DEATH  THAT  MOST  MEN 
DREAD  I  FEAR" 

Not  death  that  most  men  dread  I  fear, 
But  only  this:  lest  the  refrain 

That  merry  waves  sing  on  the  shore 
Should  never  make  me  smile  again; 

Lest  the  unfolding  of  the  leaves, 
The  mist  of  green  on  bush  and  tree, 

Should  lose  the  power  to  thrill  my  heart 
With  promise  of  the  good  to  be ; 

Lest,  when  the  moon  from  summer  skies 
Scatters  her  flowers  across  the  land, 

My  pulses  should  not  leap  for  joy 

Beneath  the  touch  of  thy  warm  hand. 


56 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  FOG 

Faint  through  the  thickening  wreaths  of  mist  that 
garland  the  brilliant  brow  of  the  ocean  — 
Ocean  emerald-blue  in  the  noonday,  shining  with 
changing,  wavering  sheen ; 
Faint   but   clear   o'er   the   foam-strewn   tides   that 
tremble  and  heave  with  eternal  motion, 
Steals  a  strange  monotonous  murmur  —  the  voice 
of  one  unknown,  unseen. 

On  glide  the  fog-spirits,  clouding  the  radiant  noon- 
day, trailing  their  veils  of  whiteness, 
Twining  and  curling  across  the  wide  blue  fields 
that  glow  with  perpetual  bloom; 
On  they  come,  threading  the  dazzling  gold  of  the 
noontide's  quivering,  shimmering  brightness, 
Wearing  a  fabric  of  pearl  and  silver,  fine  mist- 
lace,  on  ocean's  loom. 

Booms  the  sea  with  its  swing  and  swirl  of  heavy 
waves  on  the  unseen  beaches; 
Shrills  the  cry  of  the  light-winged  gull  that  is 
held  in  the  net  of  fathomless  gloom; 
But  clearer  ringing,  there  calls  the  deep  insistent 
voice  from  the  outer  reaches 
Of  boundless  invisible  billow   and  sky   that  lie 
beneath  the  fog's  soft  plume. 


57 


King  of  the  Air 


The  wild  voice  sobs  a  prayer  for  the  ships  that 
proudly  pass  o'er  the  treacherous  surges; 
It  sounds  the  knell  of  the  mariners  floating  for- 
ever beneath  the  lonely  tides. 
Steadfastly  through  the  misty  spaces,  warning  sea- 
farers—  or  chanting  their  dirges  — 
The  fog-buoy  peals  his  faithful  horn  as  high  on 
the  crest  of  the  waves  he  rides. 


58 


"  OUT  OF  THE  YEARS  AND  THE 
RAIN  " 

Through  the  gloom  of  the  brooding  shadows, 
Through  the  cold  mists  of  the  night, 

You  passed  like  a  gleam  of  sunshine, 
Filling  the  room  with  light. 

Out  of  the  years  and  the  rain 

You  came  to  my  hearth  again. 

We  sat  by  the  fire  together 

And  talked  as  good  friends  do, 
Of  books  and  work  and  playing, 

Till  the  sleepy  clock  chimed  two. 
Out  of  the  years  and  the  rain 
You  came  to  my  side  again. 

You  lit  the  little  candle, 

And  we  climbed  the  same  old  stair, 
Your  hand  in  mine,  my  dearest, 

My  cheek  against  your  hair.  .  .  . 
Out  of  the  years  and  the  rain 
You  came  to  my  arms  again. 

And  then,  in  the  joy  of  loving, 
I  woke  in  the  moon's  cold  beam, 

And  heard  the  night  wind  sighing.  ... 
And  it  was  just  a  dream. 

Out  of  the  years  and  the  rain 

You'll  never  come  again ! 


59 


CALM 

The  storm  of  yesterday  is  past. 

We  hear  no  more 
The  wild  winds  rave,  the  rude  tides  crash 

The  rocky  shore. 

The  lucent  water,  smooth  and  clear, 

Shows  every  line 
Of  curling  fern  and  sea-carved  crag 

And  tufted  pine. 

That  small  brown  bird  on  fringed  bough 

Of  cedar  green, 
Dreams  silently.     In  caverns  deep, 

Waves  lap  unseen. 

The  slow  bee  drones ;  the  locust  chants 

Its  noonday  prayer. 
A  faint,  far  chime  of  church-bells  threads 

The  sun-sweet  air. 

Warm  goldenrod  in  vivid  bloom 

On  ledges  high, 
Glows  like  a  yellow  cloud  against 

The  dark-blue  sky. 

Tomorrow's  storm  is  not  yet  come ; 

This  gentle  day 
Rests  on  the  sad  earth's  breast,  to  charm 

Its  grief  away. 

60 


TO  WILLIAM  L.  PRICE,  ARCHITECT 

We  loved  you,  friend; 
For  all  the  beauty  of  the  budding  trees, 
And  all  the  splendor  of  the  autumn  leaves 

Were  in  your  breast. 

And  now  you  rest 
In  kingly  state  beneath  October's  bloom; 
Your  tireless  weaving  on  Life's  throbbing  loom 

Is  at  an  end. 

We  loved  you,  friend; 
You  were  the  Master-builder,  and  you  knew 
Each  line  and  angle  to  make  strong  and  true  — 

Column  and  frieze; 

Not  lost  were  these 
In  the  clear  vision  of  the  work  complete, 
The  dream  made  real.     Yet  'neath  pure  Beauty's 
feet 

Your  art  you'd  bend. 

We  loved  you,  friend ; 
For  first  you  were  a  man.     In  you  the  tide 
Of  life  swept  to  the  outer  stars ;  and  side 

By  side  with  you 

Walked  Love  with  you. 
To  every  living  creature,  great  or  small, 
Man,  woman,  little  child  —  you  loved  us  all  — 

Your  hand  you'd  lend. 

61 


King  of  the  Air 


We  loved  you,  friend. 
Do  you  remember  how  we've  laughed  with  you, 
And  lived  and  worked  with  you  —  and  cried  with 
you? 

Oh,  keep  us,  dear, 

Still  very  near; 
And  let  the  lustre  of  your  spirit  rare 
Shine  in  our  hearts  —  and  make  the  world  more 
fair. 

We  love  you ,  friend/ 


October  18,  igi6,  Haver  ford,  Pa. 


62 


MORNING 

Up  from  the  sea  comes  the  radiant  morning, 

Shining  and  white  through  the  mists  of  the  night. 

Over  her  broad  breast  gleam  ripples  like  jewels. 
Far  off,  on  rip  and  shoal,  foam  flashes  bright. 

Down  on  the  dunes  all  the  birds  wake  to  greet  her. 

Song-sparrow,  sea-gull  and  sand-piper  gay 
Make  the  air  tremble  with  sweet  thrills  of  gladness, 

While  mighty  waves,  like  a  great  organ,  play. 

Out  on  the  sea  there's  a  little  boat  stirring  — 
Token  of  all  a  man's  toil,  a  man's  pain. 

Lonely  boat,  lost  in  the  mists  of  the  night-tide, 
Comfort  and  hope  morning  brings  you  again! 


63 


FIRELIGHT 

Red    gleams    of    firelight,    and    tall    clock    ticking 

slow.  .  .  . 
Through  the  quiet  room  soft  shadows  stealing  to 

and  fro.  .  .  . 
Pine  smoke  a-curling  in  the  deep  fire-place.  .  .  . 
And  the  fragrant,  blessed  warmth  flushing  all  your 

face.  .  .  . 

Cold  wind  a-sighing  in  the  poplar  by  the  door.  .  .  . 
Merry,     elfish,     ruby     lights     twinkling     on     the 

floor.  .  .  . 
Icy  twigs  a-shivering  against  the  roof-tree.  .  .  . 
And   your  smiling,    friendly  eyes  shining  back   at 

me.  .  .  . 

Through  the  frosted  casement  a  picture  chill  and 
white 

Of  snowy  garden  hedgerows  and  still  moon- 
light. .  .  . 

In  the  dusk  the  trembling  glow  of  logs  that  fade  — 
and  part.  .  .  . 

But  a  light  that  cannot  die  streaming  through  my 
heart! 


64 


IN  CAMP 

Come,  friend  —  I  miss  you  sore  tonight, 

Your  merry  look,  your  hand. 
The  little  crickets  cheerily  sing, 

And  fire-shadows  dance  in  the  sand. 

What,  never  a  note  from  the  old  violin? 

Now  play  me  a  tune,  I  pray, 
For  the  small  white  moon  looks  lonely  and  old 

Far  up  through  the  marsh-mist  grey. 

Come,  friend !     My  ears  are  keen,  so  keen, 

I  could  hear  your  eager  pace 
From  the  outermost  star  on  the  great  highway 

That  crosses  the  hills  of  space! 

Ah!  there's  an  echo!     At  last  you're  here! 

Are  you  hiding  behind  that  tree, 
Watching  me  pile  the  spruce-logs  high?  .  .  . 

It's  the  night-wind  answers  me. 

That  old  violin,  with  its  joyous  voice, 

Will  sing  me  no  songs  again ; 
But  through  my  heart  light  footfalls  pass 

Like  the  whisper  of  summer  rain. 


6s 


MOONLIGHT 

Moonlight  through  the  years, 
Pure  and  calm  and  bright, 

Lays  her  tender  hand  of  peace 
On  the  yearning  night. 

Moonlight  on  the  sea, 

Tranquil,  passionless, 
With  her  white  and  gentle  touch 

Calms  its  restlessness. 

Moonlight  on  the  shore 
Lulls  the  windy  dunes, 

Charms  the  little  waves  to  sing 
Quiet,  drowsy  tunes. 

Moonlight  in  the  streets 
Of  some  sordid  town, 

On  each  clumsy,  crooked  spire 
Sets  a  gleaming  crown. 

Moonlight  on  some  poor 

Sleeping  beggar  old, 
Covers  all  his  squalid  rags 

With  a  coat  of  gold. 


66 


King  of  the  Air 


Moonlight  in  the  fields 
Where  the  wounded  lie, 

Soothes  the  anguish  of  their  souls, 
Helping  them  to  die. 

Moonlight  on  a  grave 

Lingering  awhile, 
Cheers  the  cold  and  lonely  fern 

With  her  friendly  smile. 

Moonlight  in  a  heart 

Floods  the  darkness  there, 

Driving  forth  the  bitter  shades 
Of  an  old  despair. 

Moonlight  through  the  years, 
Pure  and  calm  and  bright, 

Lays  her  tender  hand  of  peace 
On  the  yearning  night. 


67 


SONG 

Thou  art  the  virile  mountain  stream 
That  surges  down  to  brim  the  sea. 

For  gentle  joy  of  thee  I  gleam  — 
I  am  the  pale  anemone. 

Above  thy  brink  I  reach  to  thee. 

Thou  leapest  past  with  shout  and  song ; 
Thou  strainest  to  the  far,  bright  sea, 

And  wilt  not  bear  me,  blest,  along. 

I  cannot  follow  thy  swift  way; 

My  frail  hands  wave  a  slow  goodbye. 
A  little  cloud  of  silver  spray 

Clings  to  me  like  a  memory. 


68 


THE  LITTLE  GREY  LANE 

Back  again  to  the  little  grey  lane, 

In  the  cool  of  the  night,  in  the  mist  and  the  rain; 

The  still  little  lane  that  is  fast  asleep. 

Back  to  the  little  grey  lane  again. 

Over  the  hill  there's  a  noisy  town. 
Burning  bright  the  sun  beats  down 
On  toiling  throngs,  through  long,  hot  days  — 
Scorching  bright  on  the  weary  town. 

The  streets  are  fine  with  banners  gay, 
And  flags  from  towered  buildings  sway. 
The  city  throbs  with  marching  feet  — 
And  slowly  onward  drags  the  day. 

Gay  sounds  the  band  in  the  dusty  square, 
And  hearts  are  reckless  and  faces  fair 
When  the  smoking  sun  burns  hot  and  low. 
The  city  pants  in  the  sultry  air. 

Weariness  hides  in  the  city  tall; 
And  broken  hopes;  and  sin;  and  gall; 
And  loneliness  that  sears  like  the  sun. — 
The  music  trembles  over  all. 

Back  again  to  the  little  grey  lane, 
To  ease  the  heart  of  pain,  ah !  pain ; 
The  grey  little  house  in  the  misty  street, 
To  rest  in  the  quiet,  to  dream  again. 

69 


SONNET 

The  singing  of  the  wind  that  swings  the  tree, 
And  flush  of  blossoms  on  an  April  noon ; 
The  shine  of  jewels  that  the  winter  moon 
Strews  on  the  ice-locked  lake  and  snow-rimmed  sea ; 
Full  chords  of  mating  birds'  rich  minstrelsy  — 
Gay-voiced  warbler,  or  wild-throated  loon  — 
Brought  me  no  joy.     My  sense  to  nature's  boon 
Slept,  till  life's  tide  turned,  tossing  upward  —  thee ! 
Thine  was  the  smile  that  quickened  my  dull  heart, 
And   thine  the  word   that  brought  my  soul  good 

cheer. 
It  was  thy  hand  that  guided  on  the  ways 
Of  earnest,  happy  striving.     My  weak  art 
Is  strong  through  thee.     I   needs  must  hold   thee 

dear: 
Thy  friendship  is  the  zenith  of  my  days! 


70 


ONE  BOY  LESS 

There's  one  boy  less  in  the  world  today ; 

(Oh,  lad  with  the  bright,  bright  eyes!) 
Keen  to  venture,  brave  and  gay, 
Singing  he's  left  us,  he's  gone  his  way. 

(Oh,  lad  with  the  bright,  bright  eyes!) 

There  stands  the  tree  he  used  to  climb, 

(Ah,  lad  with  the  winsome  smile!) 
And  its  red  leaves  burn  with  the  autumn-time; 
Its  life  is  long,  it's  in  its  prime. 

(Ah,  lad  with  the  winsome  smile!) 

Here  hangs  his  hat  in  the  closet  dim, 

(Oh,  lad  with  the  joyous  voice!) 
And  his  glove  and  his  reel  and  his  football  trim, 
And  his  first  dress-suit  —  he  was  straight  and  slim. 

(Oh,  lad  with  the  joyous  voice!) 

And  here  is  the  friend  he  used  to  love. 

(Ah,  lad  with  the  heart  of  gold!) 
She'll  cherish  them  all  —  the  ball  and  the  glove, 
And  the  reel  —  for  the  sake  of  the  young,  sweet 
love. 

(Ah,  lad  with  the  heart  of  gold!) 

There's  one  boy  less  in  the  world  today ; 

(Oh,  lad  with  the  soul  of  fire!) 
But  there's  one  heart  more  to  work  and  play 
And  love,  in  the  realms  of  the  far-away. 

(Oh,  lad  with  the  soul  of  fire!) 
7i 


THE  SHIPS  OF  YESTERDAY 

I  stood  upon  the  lonely  shore 
And  watched  them  sail  away, 

West-bound,  the  fair,  white-winged  ships, 
The  ships  of  yesterday. 

Oh,  swiftly  sailed  the  ship  of  Youth, 

With  flaunting  colors  gay, 
And  mirth  and  music  at  her  helm  — 

Mad  ship  of  yesterday! 

The  ship  of  Joy,  with  sails  spread  wide, 
Ploughed  by  with  foam  and  spray, 

While  laughter  rang  from  stem  to  stern  — 
Glad  ship  of  yesterday! 

With  stately  grace  careened  and  skimmed 

Adown  the  wind-swept  bay 
The  ship  of  Beauty,  rose-bedecked  — 

Proud  ship  of  yesterday. 

And  ah !  the  ship  of  Love  passed  by ; 

With  tears  I  prayed  her  stay. 
She  held  her  sure  and  steady  course  — 

Rare  ship  of  yesterday. 


72 


King  of  the  Air 


But  slowly  sailed  the  ship  of  Hope, 

Into  the  distance  grey ; 
She  plunged  and  veered,  yet  turned  not  back 

Bright  ship  of  yesterday. 

I  stand  upon  the  lonely  shore; 

The  years  go  on  alway ; 
Far  over  seas  have  sped  my  dreams, 

My  ships  of  yesterday. 

But  see !  the  eastern  sky  grows  bright, 
And  bright  the  dusky  bay.  .  .  . 

They're  sailing  home  around  the  world  — 
Staunch  ships  of  yesterday! 


73 


SONG 

My  love  is  dear  to  me. 

The  golden-rod  blooms  by  the  sea ; 

The  asters'  hue 

Is  the  sky's  own  blue  — 
But  my  love's  not  here  to  see, 
Oh,  my  love's  not  here  to  see. 

My  love,  I  hold  him  dear. 
The  wind  sings  sweet  and  clear 

Its  joyous  song 

All  the  day  long  — 
But  my  love's  not  by  to  hear, 
Oh,  my  love's  not  by  to  hear. 

As  slowly  round  they  wheel 
At  night  the  stars  reveal, 

All  golden-bright, 

Love  infinite  — 
But  my  love's  not  here  to  feel, 
Oh,  my  love's  not  here  to  feel. 

The  tides  that  swing  and  sweep, 
Peal  sea-chimes  slow  and  deep; 

And  bright  sea-beams 

Fill  all  my  dreams  — 
But  my  love  not  here  doth  sleep, 
Ah,  my  love  not  here  doth  sleep. 

A  sun-rise  cloud  glows  high, 
Like  a  rose,  in  the  pearl-grey  sky, 

Till  it  drifts  from  view 

In  the  misty  blue. — 
So  my  love,  my  dear  passed  by, 
So  my  love,  my  dear  passed  by. 
74 


THE  RIVER 

There's  rain  upon  the  river.     The  clear  drops  dance 
and  sparkle ; 
Across  the  sky  the  rain-clouds  trail  their  veils  of 
misty  lace. 
Far   down    the   smoking   channel    gleams   out   the 
birches'  silver, 
And  sleek,  bright  fishes  leap  and  play  upon  the 
river's  face. 

A  gale  is  on  the  river.     The  stinging  spray  is  flying ; 
Big  purple   packs  of  wind-swelled   clouds  loom 
grim  and  dark  and  low. 
My  little  boat,  close-reefed,  skims  by  like  water-bird, 
white-feathered, 
That  gaily  brushes  dashing  wave  when  whistling 
storm-winds  blow. 

There's  sunshine  on  the  river.     The  small  waves 
laugh  and  gurgle 
On    jagged    rock   and    crooked    reef,    on    black- 
toothed,  foaming  bar. 
The    strong   blue    current   sweeps    along    through 
windy,  sunlit  reaches, 
To  clasp  the  radiant  yellow  sands  that  glisten 
from  afar. 

There's  moonlight  on  the  river;  and  all  the  broad 
space  shimmers 
With  ripples  smooth  of  black  and  gold,  with  sheen 
of  amber  light. 
Old  thoughts  of  far-off,  happy  days  come  trooping 
back  to  mingle 
With  the  fresh  breeze  on  the  river  and  the  glory 
of  the  night. 

75 


TO  HENRY 

Little  thoughtful  son  of  mine 
With  the  brown  eyes  tender, 

Like  a  young  birch  straight  and  tall, 
Shapely,  lithe  and  slender, 

Why  dost  leave  thy  games  and  play 
While  the  day  still  lingers, 

Earnestly  to  scan  the  sea, 
Holding  fast  my  fingers? 

Just  a  speck  of  misty  sail 

Tips  the  rim  of  ocean; 
Is  it  pirate,  buccaneer, 

Smuggler,  "  Flying  Dutchman  "  ? 

Hopest  thou  to  see  mermaids  — 

Silver  fins  a-gleaming  — 
And  to  hear  their  sweet,  wild  chant 

O'er  the  waters  streaming? 

Or  is  it  a  deeper  thought, 

Born  of  dusk's  commencing: 

Vision  bright  of  ships  of  gold, 
Past  our  grosser  sensing? 

Child  thou  art  —  yet  half  a  man, 
Although  still  unknowing; 

Canst  thou  then  the  future  see, 
All  the  picture  growing? 

76 


King  of  the  Air 


We've  been  friends  and  playmates  gay 
Through  the  sunny  weather ; 

And  grey  twilight  settling  down 
Finds  us  still  together. 

But  the  years  cast  lightly  by 

Passionate  devotion ; 
In  some  golden  ship  I'll  sail 

To  that  greater  ocean. 

Some  day,  looking  out  to  sea, 

By  thy  side  another, 
Kiss  her,  dear  —  and  I  shall  know 

That  was  for  thy  mother! 


77 


"  WHEN  THE  ROSES  ARE  DEAD  " 

When  the  roses  are  dead  and  the  garden  is  bare, 

And  black  is  the  frost, 
And  the  thin,  withered  leaves  drift  away  through 
the  air, 

And  are  scattered  and  lost; 

When  the  wind  blows  keen,  and  love,  like  a  flame, 

Has  gone  out  in  the  gale, 
And  there's  no  sport  left  in  life's  old  game, 

And  the  playing  is  stale; 

When  the  music  and  feasting  are  over  and  done, 

And  the  lights  glimmer  low, 
And  there's  not  a  soul  thinks  of  you  under  the  sun, 

Or  cares  where  you  go ; 

Then  come  to  my  brown,  humble  cottage  at  even: 

There  are  flowers  to  tend.  .  .  . 
And  the  rose-tree  blooms  to  the  window  of  heaven 

In  the  heart  of  a  friend ! 


78 


PROSE 


THE  OLD  VASE 

The  old  East  India  vase  stood  upon  one  end  of 
the  chest  in  a  corner  of  the  old  garret,  where  it 
had  stood  for  many  years.  The  dust  thick  upon 
it  was  gently  stirred  by  the  breeze  that  blew  in 
through  the  open  lattice,  and  the  summer  sunlight 
streamed  brightly  into  the  room.  The  mice  ran 
to  and  fro  inside  the  walls  of  the  old  garret,  and 
the  door  leading  downstairs  blew  backward  and  for- 
ward on  its  leather  hinges.  After  a  while  the  mice 
ceased  their  clatter,  and  the  only  sound  in  the  garret 
was  the  creaking  of  the  door.  Everything  seemed 
to  be  watching  and  waiting  for  something,  and  even 
the  dust  on  the  vase  wore  an  air  of  expectancy;  for 
a  stranger  was  coming  to  take  the  vase  far  away 
to  a  strange  house  in  a  great  city.  But  the  vase 
could  not  bear  to  leave  its  home  in  the  old  garret. 

There  was  a  step  on  the  stair  and  the  door  stopped 
its  creaking  to  listen.  A  strong  breeze  perfumed 
with  honey-suckle  blew  in  through  the  window,  and 
seemed  to  bring  sweet  memories  to  the  vase,  for  it 
moved  slightly.  There  was  a  step  outside  the  door. 
With  a  shiver  the  vase  fell  forward  upon  the  floor, 
and  when  the  stranger  pushed  open  the  door,  there 
lay  before  him  only  the  scattered  fragments  of  a 
beautiful  vase. 

January,  i8qs,  Baltimore,  Md. 

81 


THE  CHILD  IN  THE  GARDEN 

It  has  always  seemed  a  strange  thing  to  Rebecca 
that  love  for  the  beautiful  things  in  life  should 
have  grown  up  in  her  as  a  child;  for  she  was  not 
by  nature  observant  of  external  things,  being  wont 
rather  to  reflect  upon  knights  and  dragons,  ogres 
and  chimeras  —  in  short,  all  the  folk  and  fairy-lore 
which  her  mother  used  to  read  to  her  out  of  fat, 
gilt-edged  volumes,  on  winter  evenings. 

Her  childhood  was  spent  in  a  great  city,  except 
for  a  few  months  each  year  with  her  grandmother 
in  an  old  colonial  house  in  the  country.  These 
summer  days  were  dreamed  of  by  Rebecca  all  winter 
long;  not  for  the  joy  that  is  the  essence  of  summer 
days;  merely  for  favorable  opportunities  of  search- 
ing the  heart  of  the  woods  for  fairy-rings, —  or  of 
tracking  imaginary  dragons  to  their  lairs  under  the 
hay-stacks. 

Of  the  house  where  her  grandmother  lived  she 
could  have  told  you  little.  A  tiny  room  she  noticed 
dimly ;  —  a  bed  with  small  colored  squares  on  the 
counterpane ;  —  big  rooms  where  mirrors  twinkled 
in  the  dusk ;  —  a  neatness  and  an  orderliness  all 
about,  felt  by  the  child  rather  than  seen ;  —  and  a 
great  garden,  where  she  chased  butterflies  and  ran 
races  with  her  shadow. 

Life  was  passing  happily  and  peacefully  enough 
for  Rebecca,  when   one  .day  a  strange   lady  came 
82 


King  of  the  Air 


to  the  house  for  a  visit.  This  lady  was  tall  and 
dark,  with  soft  eyes,  but  interesting  to  Rebecca  in 
only  one  respect, —  as  the  possessor  of  an  old  ac- 
cordion that  uttered  marvelously  sweet  and  plaintive 
strains. 

From  this  time  the  world  was  changed  for 
Rebecca.  Fairies  and  dragons  were  forgotten,  as  in 
the  twilight  she  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  porch  over- 
looking the  garden,  drinking  in  the  rare  sweetness 
of  the  melodies  the  lady  played.  Often  something 
in  her  throat  would  swell  almost  to  bursting;  and 
once  she  ran  far  down  the  garden,  in  a  passion  of 
tears,  in  a  paroxysm  of  home-sickness,  of  longing 
never  felt  before  for  familiar  faces  and  her  mother's 
voice  calling  her.  So  always  in  her  mind  there 
came  to  be  linked  with  a  certain  sweet  plaintive- 
ness  in  music,  a  bitter  pang  of  longing  for  well- 
known  voices,  mingled  with  an  indefinable  sense  of 
twilight,  and  stillness,  and  warm  growing  things. 

From  her  corner  of  the  piazza  Rebecca  could  see 
a  bit  of  garden,  which  she  began  to  notice  little  by 
little.  At  first  she  saw  objects  only  vaguely  — 
shrubbery,  trees,  a  turn-stile.  Later  she  grew  to 
note  the  details  of  the  picture,  and  especially  the 
shapes  of  things:  the  straightness  of  the  garden 
paths;  the  roundness  of  the  goose-berries  beneath 
the  hedge  shining  in  the  moonlight ;  the  fine  tracery 
of  slender  willow-boughs  against  the  sunset. 

Combined  with  this  perception  of  outline  came 
a  deep  interest  in  the  effects  of  light  and  shadow, 
especially  light  and  shadow  in  their  subtile  shiftings. 
She  saw  how  objects  stood  out  blindingly,  just  be- 
fore the  setting  of  the  sun;  and  how  at  the  step 

83 


King  of  the  Air 


of  night,  soft  black  shadows  fell  beneath  the  flowers ; 
and  how,  when  the  moon  rose  over  the  garden  wall, 
the  fluttering  poplar  leaves  were  always  shifting 
from  black  to  silver  and  back  again. 

So  Rebecca  grew  to  love  the  garden,  in  its  quiet 
moods:  in  the  late  misty  afternoons;  in  the  purple 
twilights;  when  thin  moonlight  fell  softly  down 
upon  the  flowers.  The  accordion-lady  was  now  left 
to  herself,  while  Rebecca  explored  far  down  the 
glades  and  thickets  where  unseen  things  sang  to- 
gether, to  where  the  yellow  pears  glittered  like  gold 
over  the  garden-wall.  She  felt  how  the  whole 
garden  seemed  to  beat  and  throb  in  a  blending  of 
many  notes ;  and  gradually  above  the  confused  raur- 
murings  she  could  discern  distinct  sounds:  —  cries  of 
katydids  and  crickets;  croakings  of  bull-frogs;  the 
mournful  hooting  of  a  lonely  wood-owl.  The 
garden  came  to  have  a  personality  of  its  own,  and 
seemed  to  be  endowed  with  pulsing  life.  The  walks 
and  flowers  and  strong  damp  scents  fell  upon  her 
sense  like  music,  as  sweet  as  the  old  accordion  could 
play. 

So  there  were  born  in  the  nature  of  the  child  two 
great  loves:  the  love  for  music,  and  the  love  for 
the  world  of  trees  and  flowers.  And  these  two  be- 
came so  closely  intermingled  in  her  mind,  that 
through  her  life  a  certain  glint  of  light  or  fall  of 
shadow  would  call  up  a  certain  plaintive  note  of 
the  wind ;  while  distinct  images  of  music,  rarely 
sweet,  and  winding  garden  paths,  were  inextricably 
woven  about  the  setting  of  the  blood-red  sun  and 
the  rising  of  the  golden  moon. 


February,  igo2,  Bryn  Maivr,  Pa. 

84 


A  SOLILOQUY 

Never  again  at  dinner  shall  I  drink  strong  coffee. 
While  my  neighbors  along  the  corridor  are  sleeping 
peacefully,  I  am  wide  awake,  and  my  thoughts  flut- 
ter through  my  brain  like  leaves  on  a  windy  day. — 
Over  in  the  corner  the  cold  white  moonlight  shines 
through  the  curtains,  falling  in  a  pale  square  upon 
the  carpet.  A  tiny  ray  wanders  to  the  laughing 
marble  head  of  Pan  upon  the  mantel,  and  glides 
along  his  delicate,  merry  features;  for  an  instant 
his  lips  twitch,  his  nostrils  quiver,  his  eyes  dance 
in  the  shifting  light  and  shade. —  There  is  a  charm 
about  that  mocking  face.  What  fun  it  must  have 
been  to  be  a  faun  and  to  play  all  day  long  upon 
one's  pipe,  and  to  sing  and  dance  on  the  moss  in 
the  green  woods,  and  to  pick  white  and  blue  violets 
for  one's  hair;  and,  at  length,  all  worn  out,  to 
throw  oneself  down  in  the  heart  of  the  wood,  and 
listening  to  the  wood-pecker's  tapping,  and  the  deep 
breathing  of  the  wild  hinds  behind  the  thicket,  so  to 
fall  to  dreaming. — 'But,  after  all,  one  would  soon 
tire  of  such  a  life.  One  would  miss  the  morning 
chapel  bell,  and  basket-ball  in  the  golden  after- 
noons, and  the  excitement  of  the  mail,  and  the  mid- 
night hours  of  study. —  That  reminds  me  that  there 

85 


King  of  the  Air 


is  a  written  quiz  in  philosophy  next  Monday. 
Heracleitus!  Pythagoras!  which  is  which?  And 
who  was  the  man  who  thought  our  organs  and 
members  were  once  all  separate  and  flying  through 
space  —  eyes  without  sockets  and  jaws  without 
teeth?     A  hideous  conception! 

Sleep,  will  you  never  come?  —  That  mouse  — 
hear  him!  There  is  no  use  in  his  trying  to  eat  a 
hole  in  the  bread-box.  But  he  is  not  like  Par- 
menides,  and  does  not  know  that  nothing 
is  real,  and  that  the  bread-box  and  the  bread 
within  are  merely  illusions.  Happy  mouse!  — 
Now  all  is  quiet,  except  for  the  soft  tap-tapping 
against  the  pane  of  the  ivy-leaves,  peering  in  like 
little  heads. —  The  face  of  Pan  is  white  and  still; 
perhaps  he  is  dreaming  of  his  brother  fauns  leap- 
ing under  the  blue  skies. —  Beautiful,  clear  skies 
they  are  —  and  the  grass,  so  green  —  and  flowers  — 
songs  of  birds  —  ripplings  —  a  singing  wind  —  I 
really  think  I  am  falling  — 


I  go  I,  Bryn  Mawr,  Pa. 


86 


A  STORM 

All  day  long  there  had  come  a  moaning  over  the 
harbor  bar;  and  all  day  long  fisher- folk  had  hurried 
through  the  streets,  anxiously  scanning  the  sky. — 
Now  night  had  fallen,  and  a  stillness  hung  over  the 
old  town  like  a  great  bird  brooding  with  out- 
stretched wings. 

Faintly  up  from  the  sea  there  rose  a  kind  of 
quivering  sob  that  died  away  in  a  whisper.  Again 
it  rose,  less  faint,  like  the  soft  twitter  of  half- 
awakened  birds.  Still  again  it  rose,  now  grown 
into  a  human  voice,  that  wailing  broke  into  a  shriek. 
Down  fell  the  storm,  and  with  it  a  thick  blackness, 
and  the  smell  of  dank  sea-weed,  and  the  taste  of 
salt  water,  and  a  roaring  wind.  Rain  fell  that 
turned  to  hail,  and  dashed  upon  the  stones  with  a 
deafening  clatter. —  Down  by  the  wharves  the  broad 
waves  seethed  high,  lashing  the  big  piles  in  fury, 
while  against  the  sky  the  spray  rose  like  smoke. 
And  always  the  sea-wind  sang  shrill,  through  the 
froth  and  foam. 

Then  suddenly  back  into  the  sea  fled  the  storm, 
whence  it  had  come;  and  again  stillness  fell  upon 
the  town,  save  for  the  far-off  clanging  of  a  fog- 
bell,  and  the  booming  of  the  waves  on  the  harbor 
bar. 

1901,  Bryn  Maivr,  Pa. 

87 


A  MASKED  BALL 

At  first,  resting  my  chin  on  the  rail  of  the  balcony, 
I  seemed  to  be  looking  down  upon  a  flower-like  mass 
of  red  roses,  and  blue  violets,  and  white  lilies,  and 
to  be  hearing  a  gentle  buzzing  like  bees  in  summer. 
Gradually  I  was  able  to  distinguish  different  sounds 
—  snatches  of  melody,  laughter,  gentle  silken  svvish- 
ings,  soft  murmurings,  chatterings,  patterings, 
clickings  of  high  heels  on  the  polished  floor.  All 
at  once  there  floated  upwards  the  gay  music  of  a 
waltz.  The  bright  blossoms  began  to  move  in  cir- 
cles, bending,  turning,  undulating  with  the  rhythmic 
measure,  glistening  and  gorgeous  where  the  yellow 
light  fell  full  upon  them,  paler  and  more  delicately 
tinted  in  the  purple  shadows  of  the  distance. 

They  quivered,  spun,  skipped  and  whirled,  a  mass 
of  confused  forms  and  mingled  colors.  For  an  in- 
stant the  yellow  lights  glinted  upon  a  pink  brocaded 
petticoat,  a  wreath  of  red  roses,  long  yellow  hair; 
then  on  dancing  impish  scarlet  shapes  with  horns; 
or  on  a  big  black  hat  and  tiny  flitting  feet;  while 
above  the  music  of  the  waltz  rose  brayings,  and 
crowings,  and  neighings,  and  barkings,  and  screech- 
ings   of    whistles,    and    blarings   of    trumpets,    and 


King  of  the  Air 


howlings  of  cats.  From  one  corner  of  the  room 
came  the  faint,  pungent  odor  of  Japanese  incense 
that  rose  in  grey  curls,  and  the  sweet  strong  smell 
of  Turkish  tobacco. 

Suddenly  the  music  stopped,  and  the  mass  re- 
solved itself  into  distinct  figures:  dainty  shepherd- 
esses skipping  along  with  a  scent  about  them  of 
sweet  clover  and  meadow-grasses;  clowns  jeering  at 
haughty  dowager  duchesses  sweeping  by  with  high- 
arched  brows;  mischievous  flower-girls  tossing 
bouquets  at  quiet  brown-hooded  monks;  pale  nuns 
gazing  sad-eyed  at  little  red  devils. 

Then  again  the  music  swelled,  and  again  the  room 
was  filled  with  a  crowd  of  quivering,  nodding, 
flower-like  forms,  here  gleaming  brightly  in  the 
dazzling  glare  and  glitter  of  the  yellow  lights,  there 
fading  away  into  the  shadows ;  while  over  all  there 
trembled  a  light  rippling  of  laughter  like  waterfalls 
in  spring. 


1901,  Bryn  Ma<wr,  Pa. 


89 


MY  CHILDHOOD 

There  was  a  time  when  summer  skies  were  bluer 
than  they  are  today ;  when  sea  breezes  were  sweeter 
and  fresher;  when  little  white  boats  bobbed  along 
with  a  jauntier  air;  when  old  ladies  were  all  like 
dainty,  cracked  Dresden  china;  when  to  go  to  Sun- 
day School  was  the  worst  of  fates,  and  to  the  play 
the  joy  of  life;  when  the  birch-switch  stood,  with 
dreaded  yet  fascinating  possibilities,  behind  the  library 
door;  when  great-grandfather's  clock  used  to  groan 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  inspiring  a  delicious  sort 
of  terror;  when  green  apples  flourished  in  pleasant 
prohibition,  and  skating  at  night  on  thin  ice  was 
pure  delight;  when  ghosts  and  phantoms  could  be 
seen  at  any  time  down  by  the  old  stone  mill,  and 
in  the  silent  winter  nights  the  "  haunted  lady  "  used 
to  wail;  when  a  bar  of  moonlight  was  a  magic 
girdle,  to  be  shunned,  and  the  green  wood  was  the 
home  of  elves  and  pixies  and  gnomes;  when  tarts 
were  flakier  and  cakes  sweeter  and  flowers  brighter 
and  cherries  riper,  than  nowadays;  when  every  old 
man  was  a  wizard  in  disguise ;  when  the  world  was 
a  place  of  vague  realities  and  living  dreams,  to  be 
loved  and  feared,  with  uncomprehended  shiftings 
and  interminglings  of  golden  light  and  purple 
shadow  —  such  was  the  far-away  time  of  my  child- 
hood. 

igoi,  Bryn  Mawr,  Pa. 

90 


A  FARM 

It  is  high  noon.  The  low  white  farm-house,  the 
great  red  barn,  the  farm-yard  and  orchards,  basking 
in  the  mellow  warmth  and  misty  brightness  of  the 
Indian  summer  day,  seem  half  asleep.  A  puff  of 
wind  from  across  the  meadows,  leaving  in  its  wake 
a  faint  odor  of  dank  wood-leaves  and  sodden  earth, 
rustles  through  the  tall  poplars  about  the  house,  and 
sends  clouds  of  brown  brush-smoke  swirling  among 
the  tree-trunks. 

Through  the  deserted  farm-yard,  with  its  gates 
and  the  broad  doors  of  its  well-filled  granaries  and 
store-houses  and  big  red  barn  standing  wide  open, 
scurries  a  company  of  ducks,  waddling  in  a  straight 
yellow  line  to  the  horse-trough,  where,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  the  lords  of  the  barn-yard,  they  swim  and 
dive  and  splash  in  the  gurgling  water. 

In  the  orchard,  silent,  misty,  scented  with  mellow 
fruitfulness,  yellow  leaves  lie  thick  on  the  ground, 
and  sometimes  a  big  yellow  apple,  swollen  almost 
to  bursting  with  abundance  of  rich  juice,  falls  to 
the  ground  with  a  soft  thud,  and  lies  shining  in  the 
warm  sunshine  like  an  apple  of  gold. 

9i 


King  of  the  Air 


Drowsy  murmurs  come  from  over  the  garden 
wall:  a  humming  of  bees,  a  faint  whirring  of  grass- 
hoppers, a  mournful  singing  of  katydids  —  broken 
at  times  by  the  sharp  creaking  of  the  garden  gate 
on  its  rusty  hinges.  A  tall  yellow  sunflower  and  a 
crowd  of  scarlet  hollyhocks  sleepily  nodding,  blink 
down  over  the  wall  at  a  rabbit  with  his  head 
through  a  hole  in  the  fence,  who  wiggles  his  long 
ears  and  peers  bright-eyed  at  a  bit  of  cabbage-leaf. 
Suddenly  a  bush  sends  down  upon  his  head  a  crim- 
son shower,  and  away  he  scuttles,  leaving  a  mist  of 
dust  and  earth  and  flying  crimson  leaves  behind 
him. 


Bryn  Maivr,  Pa.,  igoi. 


92 


A  MEMORV 

As  we  were  driving,  suddenly  at  a  bend  of  the 
road  there  came  to  us  the  smell  of  heather  in  full 
bloom,  from  the  distant  hills,  an  odor  sweet,  dry, 
crisp,  spicy  and  penetrating,  that  quivered  like  a 
butterfly  on  the  warm  breeze.  The  blood  rushed 
to  my  cheeks;  I  leaned  forward  eagerly  drinking 
in  the  sweetness;  and  my  thoughts  flew  back  ten 
years. 

Again  I  was  in  a  land  of  hills  and  heather  — 
heather  red,  and  blue,  and  brown,  and  pink,  and 
faint  yellow,  that  waved  and  nodded  and  fluttered 
without  ceasing  in  the  wind  blowing  up  from  the 
sea.  The  glittering  sunlight  flashed  back  from  the 
bright  colors  around  us  as  we  wandered  over  the 
rolling  moorlands;  screaming  seagulls  flitted  over 
the  sand-dunes  yonder;  the  little  blue  pools  in  the 
hollows  of  the  hills,  bluer  than  the  blue  sky,  laughed 
when  the  strong  salt  breeze  swept  over  them,  and 
cat-tails  on  the  brink  knocked  their  heads  together 
with  faint,  dainty  tappings. —  Across  the  shining 
heather  came  the  muffled  ringing  of  the  bell-buoy 
and  the  noise  of  great  waves  beating  the  hard  white 
sand.     While  up  on  the  cliff  the  light-house  stood 

93 


King  of  the  Air 


blindingly  white  and  sharp   against  the   turquoise 
sky. 

Another  bend  in  the  road,  and  the  sweet  heather- 
scent  had  vanished.  But  all  day  long  I  seemed  to 
breathe  it  in  my  nostrils;  and  all  night  long  my 
dreams  were  of  the  heather-blooms  and  golden  lights 
and  salt  winds  and  sea-sounds  of  long  ago. 


Bryn  Mawr,  Pa.,  igoi. 


94 


DEATH  IN  THE  HOUSE 

Softly  the  afternoon  sunlight  streams  across  the 
wide  hall,  through  blinds  low-drawn,  warming  the 
pale  tints  of  the  walls.  Quietly  it  glides  from  place 
to  place,  now  casting  a  gleam  up  the  broad  stair, 
now  lingering  lovingly  upon  a  bit  of  embroidery 
and  a  little  silken  bag  —  a  woman's  handiwork  — 
left  forgotten  on  the  old  sofa.  Back  and  forth 
through  the  half-open  door  the  breeze  plays,  waving 
the  light  curtains,  and  whispering  in  the  great 
chimney  of  the  fireplace. 

It  is  still  in  the  old  house, —  strangely  still.  The 
hurrying  up  and  down  of  yesterday,  the  voices 
raised,  then  quickly  hushed,  the  undercurrent  of  a 
great  unrest  —  all  are  gone.  Even  the  birds  in  the 
garden  have  ceased  their  chattering. 

For  Death  is  in  the  house.  In  the  pure,  pale 
dawn  he  came,  and  gliding  up  the  stair,  entered 
gently  into  an  upper  chamber  where  the  mistress  of 
the  house  lay  in  pain.  But  at  his  coming  she  smiled, 
and  was  at  rest. 

Longer  grow  the  shadows  in  the  wide,  cool  hall. 
The  willows  outside  the  half-open  door,  screening 
95 


King  of  the  Air 


the  setting  sun,  wave  their  long  tendrils  of  green- 
gold.  The  sweet  evening  scents  from  the  garden 
are  beginning  to  enter  the  house ;  the  calling  of  katy- 
dids and  crickets  heralds  the  coming  of  night.  The 
evening  breeze  makes  music  in  the  waving  willows, 
and  sings  softly  through  the  lonely  passages  of  the 
old  house. 

But  our  beloved  is  not  gone  from  us.  Her  voice 
is  in  the  singing  wind,  her  smile  is  in  the  radiant 
sky,  her  dear  presence  is  in  the  scent  of  the  garden 
roses.  She  is  made  one  with  nature,  by  whose 
mighty  force  she  is  held,  in  imperishable  beauty,  near 
us  forever. 

January,  igio,  Ardmore,  Pa. 


96 


THE  MESSAGE  OF  A  DAY 

Peace  on  the  sea. 

The  waves  ring  gently,  like  little  bells,  on  the 
shore. 

From  south  to  north  the  blue  tide  sweeps  past  the 
lonely  beaches  with  a  slow,  steady  movement. 

A  grey  mist  veils  the  far  horizon,  so  that  there 
seems  to  be  no  boundary  between  the  peace  of  the 
sky  and  the  peace  of  the  sea. 

Blue-grey  sea,  grey-blue  sky,  mingle  their  soft 
colors. 

Through  the  far-off  haze  gleams  a  faint  white 
line  of  breaking  water  —  waves  on  an  outer  bar. 

Rest  beside  the  sea. 

The  long  green  beach-grasses  wave  in  the  wind. 

Tall  golden-rod  swings  long  yellow  plumes. 

Little  sprays  of  yellow  bloom  lie  close  to  the  sandy 
shore  as  though  asleep. 

The  sun  is  warm  and  comforting  and  bright,  and 
far  above  the  horizon. 

There  is  time  to  rest. 


97 


King  of  the  Air 


Love  on  the  sea. 

Love  in  the  sky,  on  the  green  dunes  with  their 
gold. 

Peace,  and  rest,  and  love. 

Harmony  of  time  and  place; 

Harmony  of  the  sun  and  the  shining  shore ; 

Harmony  of  the  chanting  waves  and  the  singing 
wind ; 

Harmony,  which  means  love. 

Love  swelling  the  trembling  bosom  of  the  sea ; 

Filling  the  lithe  beach-grasses  and  giving  them 
strength  to  bend  and  sway  in  the  strong  breeze  with- 
out ever  breaking; 

Making  the  golden-rod  shine  wTith  a  splendor 
brighter  than  gold. 

Love  flooding  the  heart. 

Joy! 

Joy  for  the  peace,  and  the  rest,  and  the  love  of 
this  summer  day. 

Joy  that  fills  and  overflows  the  blue,  calm  sea 
and  the  warm,  sunny  shore, 

And  the  troops  of  golden-rod  that  climb  the  cliff, 
joyously  waving  golden  banners. 

Joy  to  rest  in  the  peace  of  the  shimmering  sands ; 

To  listen  to  the  music  of  the  waves,  that  sounds 
forever  and  ever. 

Joy  to  love. 

There  is  no  room  in  the  heart  for  despair,  or  even 
pain,  or  any  wrong. 

Love  and  joy  are  supreme  —  and  peace,  and  rest. 


98 


King  of  the  Air 


Then  dreams. 

Dreams  of  an  infinite  sea  and  an  infinite  sky  of 
blue  and  pearl, 

With  a  filmy  mist  blotting  out  all  boundaries  of 
space  and  time, 

And  joining  ocean  and  sky  forever  in  one  beauty. 

Dreams  of  peace  on  land  and  sea,  and  in  the  souls 
of  men :  eternal  peace. 

Dreams  of  infinite  love  in  all  human  hearts;  and 
after  pain,  always  joy. 

This  is  the  message  of  one  summer  day. 

Stasconset,  Mass.,  16  September,  igi8. 


99 


THE  WOLF 

(A  Christmas  Tale) 

It  was  night  in  the  forest.  Heavy  clouds  cur- 
tained the  moon,  and  a  dull  light  filtered  through 
the  long  avenues  of  pine  and  hemlock.  Duskily 
glimmered  the  winter  snow,  stretching  far  and  deep 
into  the  secret  places  of  the  wood.  The  tall,  sombre 
firs,  laden  low  with  weight  of  snow  and  sleet,  spread 
out  long  arms  like  a  company  of  great  birds  about 
to  fly  away  into  the  wide,  free  spaces  of  the  night. 

It  was  very  still  in  the  forest.  Not  the  crunch 
of  a  wood-creature's  footstep,  not  the  sharp  snap 
of  an  icy  twig  or  the  gurgle  of  a  stream  beneath  its 
frozen  covering,  broke  the  deep  silence.  The  forest 
was  sleeping  under  the  shadowed  moon. 

Beyond  the  forest  lay  the  vast,  open  steppe,  barren 
and  drear.  Here,  oftentimes,  the  wind  would  rage, 
and  rush  along,  blowing  the  snow  in  clouds,  and 
piling  up  thick,  soft,  treacherous  drifts.  All  night 
long  it  would  run  over  the  plain,  shouting  in  joy 
if  by  chance  it  espied  a  traveller  toiling  across  the 
steppe.  Pitiless  it  would  fall  upon  him,  pitiless  as 
the  ravenous,  snarling  wolves  lurking  in  the  black 
shadows  of  the  forest. 

ioo 


King  of  the  Air 


But  tonight  there  was  no  wind  howling  across  the 
desolate  steppe.  Silence  deep  as  the  forest's  hush 
lay  upon  the  waste.  Dimly  the  moon  shone  down 
through  its  veil  of  cloud.  Dimly  shadows  — 
shadows  of  the  clouds,  perhaps  —  floated  across  the 
snow,  floated  on  and  on  until  lost  in  the  forest's 
gloom. 

As  the  last  grey  shadow  drifted  into  the  wood, 
suddenly,  on  the  thin,  clear  air  rang  out  a  long, 
quavering  cry,  that  rose,  and  fell,  and  rose  again, 
terrible  and  wild !     It  was  the  baying  of  the  wTolves. 

The  baying  of  the  wolves!  It  struck  terror  to 
the  heart  of  the  man  toiling  over  the  steppe.  He 
shuddered  and  crossed  himself,  clutching  tightly 
something  in  his  belt. 

"The  wolves!"  he  muttered,  cursing  under  his 
breath.  "  It's  death  then,  from  all,  man  and 
beast!" 

With  labor  the  man  ploughed  his  way  through 
the  snow  towards  the  shelter  of  the  forest.  Some- 
times, almost  spent,  he  paused;  but  soon,  doggedly, 
onward  he  struggled.  Whatever  menace  the  forest 
might  hold,  to  gain  the  obscurity  of  the  wood,  to  be 
lost  in  its  dense  defiles  —  this  was  his  only  chance 
for  life;  behind,  death  pursued  him.  At  length  he 
gained  the  brooding  shelter  of  the  firs :  his  goal  was 
reached!  Stumbling,  he  fell,  and  lay  motionless,  a 
dark  blot  upon  the  glimmering  snow. 

But  he  dared  not  rest.  In  spite  of  tingling  feet, 
and  aching  hands,  and  a  numbness  at  his  heart,  he 
dared  not  rest.  He  must  go  on.  He  must,  with 
all  his  remaining  strength,  fight  the  drowsiness  steal- 

IOI 


King  of  the  Air 


ing  over  him.  He  must  forget  his  pain,  and  his 
hunger,  and  keep  moving,  moving,  as  long  as  he  was 
able.  And  afterwards?  —  He  fingered  the  thing  in 
his  belt  and  cursed  again. 

On,  on  he  toiled,  down  the  long  avenues  of  fir 
and  hemlock  —  hungry,  weary,  bitten  to  the  quick 
with  cold,  his  feet  blistered,  his  hands  cracked  and 
bleeding, —  on,  on,  through  the  long  night.  Some- 
times he  prayed,  "  Jesu,  Son  of  Mary,  give  me  one 
more  chance  to  live!  "  Sometimes  he  cursed,  "  The 
Hell-dogs,  hounding  me  like  a  wolf!  " 

He  shivered,  his  teeth  chattered,  his  brain  reeled. 
Suddenly  something  pricked  his  deadened  senses. 
Down  a  long,  straight  pathway  of  fir  shone  a  tiny 
speck  of  yellow  light.  For  an  instant  it  vanished, 
then  flickered  again,  beckoning.  Energy  returned 
to  the  man.  Eagerly  he  strode  forward,  until  in  a 
little  clearing  he  saw  the  outlines  of  a  wood-cutter's 
house.  It  was  a  small,  rough  cottage,  but  through 
its  narrow  window  gleamed  welcoming  fire-light. 

"  Life!  "  the  man  whispered.  His  teeth  gleamed 
wolfishly,  and  he  grasped  tightly  the  thing  in  his 
belt. 

Creeping  stealthily  nearer,  he  peered  through  the 
window.  Within,  a  night-fire  on  the  hearth  burned 
merrily.  Flecks  of  shadow  and  gleams  of  fire-light 
danced  and  played  and  chased  each  other  through 
the  little  room,  quivering  upon  the  rough  board 
table  with  its  mugs  and  jugs  and  loaf  of  black 
bread;  leaping  along  the  pewter  pots  on  the  shelf 
above  the  fire-place;  flickering  along  great  strips  of 
pork    and    bacon    hanging    high    from    blackened 

1 02 


King  of  the  Air 


rafters;  and  pausing  at  last  to  tremble  softly  upon 
the  checkered  counterpane  of  a  rude  bed,  which 
covered  two  sleeping  figures. 

The  watcher  without  grinned,  and  clutched  close 
the  thing  in  his  belt.  He  felt  the  casement  —  it 
opened  to  his  hand.  Life  was  his !  With  a  savage 
gesture  he  drew  from  his  belt  a  long,  glittering 
knife.     His  hand  was  on  the  sill.  .  .  . 

A  sound  arrested  him  —  a  soft  gurgling  cry. 
The  man  peered  and  blinked,  striving  to  pierce  the 
shadows.  In  the  dimness  of  a  distant  corner  he 
made  out  a  cradle  rudely  carved,  and  within  the 
cradle,  a  little  child,  with  chubby  fists  outstretched, 
smiling  in  its  sleep.  But  this  was  not  all !  At  the 
foot  of  the  cradle,  glistening  with  bright  beads  and 
berries  and  silvery  bells,  stood  a  tiny  Christmas  tree. 
And  peeping  through  the  topmost  branches  of  the 
little  tree,  the  image  of  the  Christ  Child  smiled 
down  serenely  —  smiled  down  upon  the  hearth-fire 
burning  merrily,  and  upon  the  baby  laughing  in  its 
sleep,  and  upon  the  checkered  counterpane,  and  upon 
the  wolfish  figure  crouching  in  the  window;  while 
all  the  time  the  ornaments  of  the  tiny  Christmas 
tree  twinkled  and  nodded  and  blinked.  The  eyes 
of  the  outlaw  smarted  with  strange  tears.  Softly 
he  closed  the  casement  and  drew  back  into  the  night. 
With  an  oath  he  flung  his  knife  far  out  into  the 
snow. 

But  the  man  did  not  leave  the  window.  With 
his  face  pressed  close  against  the  pane,  thirstily  he 
drank  in  the  quiet  home-scene.  Gradually  he  no 
longer  saw  the  child,  or  the  cradle,  or  anything  at 
all  in  the  room  except  the  wonderful  little  Christ- 
103 


King  of  the  Air 


mas  tree.  With  all  his  soul  he  saw  the  little  Christ- 
mas tree!  But  other  things  looked  different.  He 
saw  a  beautiful  young  woman  sitting  before  the  fire, 
and  strangely,  he  was  able  to  feel  her  soft  arms 
round  him,  and  her  kisses  on  his  cheek,  and  to  hear 
her  voice  whispering  "  little  son,"  and  his  own  voice 
answering  "  little  mother,"  in  tones  grown  wonder- 
fully young  and  sweet;  while  right  beside  him, 
within  reach  of  his  hand,  sparkled  and  twinkled  the 
marvelous  little  Christmas  tree! 

Long  the  man  knelt  upon  the  snow,  in  the  bitter 
cold,  seeing  these  strange  things.  Very  quietly  he 
lingered  there.  Perhaps  he  slept.  Perhaps  that 
was  the  reason  he  did  not  move,  or  cry  out,  or  flee 
away,  when  from  the  heart  of  the  dim  forest  rang 
out  that  wild  cry  —  the  baying  of  the  wolves.  The 
baying  of  the  wolves!  He  had  feared  it  before. 
Surely  now  he  would  spring  up  and  knock  on  the 
window  for  help!  Surely  those  within  would 
shelter  and  protect  the  poor  outcast! 

But  he  did  not  stir.  One  by  one,  grey  shadows, 
like  the  shadows  of  the  clouds,  crept  closer,  closer, 
circled  about  him,  sniffed  at  him,  snarled  and 
snapped  at  him.  .  .  . 

Long  after,  the  clouds  uncovered  the  sky,  and 
the  moon  flooded,  with  cold,  clear  light,  the  still 
forest,  the  quiet  steppe.  But  no  living  thing  was 
visible :  the  heart  of  the  forest  still  held  its  secrets. — 
Inside  the  wood-cutter's  warm  cottage  the  kindly 
hearth-fire  glowed  and  the  baby  smiled  in  its  sleep; 
outside,  the  cold  moonbeams  flickered  upon  a  bit  of 
steel  half  buried  in  the  snow. 


December,  igio,  Ardmore,  Pa. 
104 


THE  MOOR-BIRDS 

In  a  little  circle  of  the  moors,  sheltered  on  all 
sides  from  the  furious  gales  of  winter,  inland,  and 
far  from  the  wide  reaches  of  the  sea,  nestled  a  tiny 
cabin.  Its  walls  were  all  aslant  from  the  stress 
of  many  storms;  its  deeply-scarred  roof  seemed 
about  to  slide  off  upon  the  ground ;  the  whole  cabin 
swayed  and  quivered  when  the  breezes  played  upon 
it.  But  rude,  dilapidated  though  it  was,  still  it 
hung  together,  year  after  year,  a  blot  of  gleaming 
silver  against  the  dusky  moors.  At  its  worn  door- 
step crimson  swamp-lilies  raised  their  stately  heads 
in  summer,  while  all  about,  masses  of  elderberry, 
sweet-fern  and  wild-rose  bloom  ran  riot  over  the 
moors,  scenting  the  air.  And  the  voice  of  the  un- 
seen sea  was  never  silent,  softly  whispering  upon  the 
summer  breezes,  thundering  along  the  lonely  coasts 
in  the  winter  hurricanes. 

One  summer  evening  a  woman  stood  in  the  door- 
way of  the  cabin  shading  her  eyes  from  the  rays 
of  the  setting  sun.  She  wore  a  short  dress  of  brown 
homespun,  and  a  white  cloth  bound  about  her  head. 
Her  bare  legs  and  arms  shone  with  a  deeper  bronze 
than  comes  from  sun  and  wind.  Swiftly  her  black 
105 


King  of  the  Air 


eyes  glanced  from  the  western  sky  to  the  moors 
in  the  east.  The  air  was  soft,  without  a  breath, 
the  sky  blue  and  cloudless ;  yet  the  sea  held  a  menace 
in  its  tones.  Filmy  mist-wreaths,  drifting  in  from 
the  east,  were  beginning  to  curl  and  twine  about  the 
bosom  of  the  moorland,  creeping  stealthily  nearer 
and  nearer,  stretching  out  long  white  fingers  into 
the  sunset,  blotting  out  the  rise  of  purple  hills 
beyond.  Long  and  keenly  the  woman  scanned  the 
moors,  the  sky.  Suddenly  she  stepped  into  the 
open  and  laid  her  ear  to  the  ground.  Then,  with 
a  short,  guttural  note  of  satisfaction  she  entered  the 
cabin.  A  thin  black  thread  from  the  broken 
chimney  curled  into  the  sky. 

On  and  on  the  sea-mists  crept,  thickening  the  air, 
crawling  down  into  the  curves  and  hollows  of  the 
hills,  spreading  in  a  lacy  coverlet  over  the  low-lying 
bogs  and  marsh-lands,  and  joining  at  last  in  one  un- 
broken mass  of  fog  that  settled  heavy  and  close 
about  the  house.  Presently  in  the  distance  sounded 
the  music  of  sheep-bells,  tinkling  over  the  misty 
moors.  The  woman  came  to  the  door;  the  grey 
haze  lay  against  her  face  like  a  blanket.  She 
whistled  sweet  and  shrill  between  her  fingers,  a  few 
short,  wild  notes.  Immediately  she  was  answered 
on  all  sides  by  many  bird-voices,  that  warbled  mer- 
rily, mingling  with  the  tinkle  of  approaching  sheep- 
bells.  One  by  one  a  little  flock  of  shaggy  sheep  and 
goats  filed  into  the  sheep-fold  before  the  house. 
Two  small  figures  drifted  out  of  the  fog,  their 
brown  faces  wet  and  glistening. 

"  You  are  late  tonight,  little  sheep,"  said  the 
woman. 

1 06 


King  of  the  Air 


"  The  way  was  long  and  the  fog  thick,  little 
mother.  We  might  have  passed  the  night  in  the 
mist  if  our  moor-birds  had  not  guided  us  home!  " 

"  The  bird-folk  are  always  wise  and  kind. —  Eat, 
now,  for  the  night  of  fog  is  dark,  and  we  have  no 
light  but  the  hearth-fire." 

The  youngsters  fell  to  eating,  jostling  and  push- 
ing each  other  in  boy  fashion.  After  supper  they 
curled  up  on  sheepskins  before  the  flickering  hearth- 
fire.  Their  mother,  squatting  beside  them,  told 
them  stories  of  the  days  when  many  an  Indian  ham- 
let flourished  on  the  island ;  and  of  Indian  Big  Jim, 
their  father;  and  of  how  one  night  he  was  found 
dead  at  his  own  door-step,  a  bullet  through  his 
heart.  They  had  buried  him  deep  beside  his  little 
home-stead,  and  now  crimson  lilies  flamed  upon  his 
grave. 

"  Some  day,  little  mother,  I  will  kill  the  man  who 
killed  my  father!  "  spoke  up  the  elder  of  the  boys. 

"  Yes,  little  sheep,  when  the  time  is  ripe,  and  thou 
art  a  man." 

The  group  fell  silent,  watching  the  ruddy  glow 
of  the  dying  fire,  listening  to  the  wind  that  whis- 
pered through  the  tall  red  lilies  on  the  dead  man's 
grave,  and  to  the  sea  that  echoed  mournfully  across 
the  misty  moors. 

So  passed  peaceful  days  for  the  little  Indian 
family.  The  boys  would  spend  long  hours  in  the 
open,  pasturing  their  flock,  caressed  by  sweet  salt 
airs  that  were  warm  and  spicy  with  summer  sun- 
light.    They  loved  the  moorland  with  its  glowing 

107 


King  of  the  Air 


carpet  of  flowers.  They  loved  the  singing  of  the 
moor-birds,  and  the  eternal  music  of  waves  on  the 
distant  shore.  Sometimes  from  the  summit  of  a  hill 
they  could  discern  the  faint  shadow  of  a  sail  on  the 
blue  sea.  Then  they  would  fall  to  wondering  about 
the  great  world,  and  would  dream  of  sailing  away 
in  ships  of  their  own  when  they  should  be  grown. 
One  day  there  came  jolting  over  the  rough 
moor-road  in  a  calash,  a  stranger  from  the  distant 
town.  The  "  Town  Council  "  had  decreed,  he  said, 
that  the  sons  of  Indian  Big  Jim  must  have  school- 
ing during  the  coming  winter  season.  He  was  a 
Quaker,  a  kindly  man,  and  he  offered  to  take  the 
boys  into  his  own  home.  The  mother  could  visit 
them  from  time  to  time,  he  said,  and  in  the  spring 
they  would  return  to  her. —  So  the  matter  was  ar- 
ranged. 

Across  the  rolling  moors,  in  the  slanting  Septem- 
ber sunlight,  two  little  figures  walked  hand-in-hand 
together.  The  sedges  and  cat-tails  about  the  blue 
pools  nestling  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills,  nodded 
together;  the  ruddy  fruit  of  the  wild  cranberry 
glistened  in  the  sun;  the  many  plants  and  wild- 
flowers,  which  even  at  this  late  season  showed  no 
shadow  of  decay,  mingled  their  bright  colors  with 
the  softer  tints  of  the  moors.  The  heather  was 
deep  and  springy  under-foot,  and  the  air  was  heavy 
with  the  perfume  of  sun-dried  sweet-fern  and 
sassafras.  A  little  breeze  from  over  the  hill  bore 
in  its  wake  the  smell  of  the  sea,  and  from  the  top 
of  the  hill  they  could  see  the  sea  itself  encircling 
the  coast  in  purple  majesty.  It  was  one  of  those 
clear,  drowsy  days  on  the  island,  when  the  waves 
108 


King  of  the  Air 


crawl  lazily  over  the  shimmering  sands,  and  nature 
seems  to  dream. 

Silently,  without  words  or  tears,  the  children 
were  bidding  goodbye  to  their  moors.  For  the  last 
time  they  were  drinking  in  the  warm  fragrance  of 
the  soft  moor  air;  they  were  taking  their  last  look 
at  the  mysterious  sea,  with  its  gossamer  sails  drifting 
afar.  This  was  their  hour.  In  a  little  while  they 
would  trudge  behind  the  tinkling  sheep-bells  home, 
where  their  mother  was  waiting,  and  their  father, 
in  his  quiet  green  grave. 

It  was  bleak  November.  The  Indian  children 
were  at  school  in  the  town ;  but  they  hated  the 
strange  ways  of  white-folk.  Although  the  Quaker 
family  treated  them  kindly,  they  would  steal  away 
to  their  little  room  under  the  eaves  to  talk  in 
whispers  of  their  mother,  and  of  their  sheep,  and 
of  the  little  cabin  in  the  lonely  moorland.  They 
would  not  play  with  other  children ;  they  grew  thin 
and  listless. 

One  day  they  resolved  to  run  away.  Secretly, 
at  dusk,  they  stole  out  of  the  town,  and  took  the 
moor-road  that  stretched,  bleak  and  desolate,  across 
the  islands.  The  dusky  moors  were  glimmering 
with  autumn  reds  and  browns,  and  the  air  was 
crisp  with  a  delicate  touch  of  frost.  The  children 
shivered  as  they  hurried  along.  They  hoped,  by  fol- 
lowing the  moor-road,  to  reach  their  cabin  in  a  few 
hours.  And  then  —  the  joy  of  home  and  their 
mother's  arms! 

The  round  white  moon,  smiling  down  upon  the 
childish  figures,  began  to  shine  brightly,  pointing  the 

109 


King  of  the  Air 


way.  The  sky  was  cloudless  and  serene.  The  only 
sound  through  the  frosty  air  was  the  sighing  of  the 
lonely  sea.  The  road  stretched  fair  and  plain  be- 
fore them,  and  all  was  well. 

The  Indian  woman  sat  on  her  doorstep,  watching 
the  sunset  fade,  and  the  purple  shadows  creep  over 
the  moors,  and  the  white  moon  begin  to  shimmer 
in  the  clear  sky.  It  was  a  quiet  evening.  The 
woman  was  smoking  her  pipe  and  thinking  of  her 
little  ones.  She  was  very  lonely.  She  was  plan- 
ning how  she  could  sell  her  little  stock  of  sheep 
and  goats,  and  join  her  boys  in  the  town  before  the 
winter  season  closed  down. 

The  brown  grasses  and  tall  dead  lily-stalks  on  the 
grave  of  Indian  Big  Jim  began  to  rustle  softly. 
The  shimmering  moon  grew  vague  and  nebulous. 
Deeper  shadows  came  creeping  across  the  darken- 
ing moors,  a  gloom  fell  upon  the  world.  It  was 
the  fog!  The  woman  shivered,  and  pulling  her 
ragged  shawl  across  her  breast,  went  inside  the 
cabin  and  shut  the  door.  Thicker  and  colder  grew 
the  air;  a  trembling  whiteness  filled  the  night. 
No  man  could  see  his  hand  before  his  face;  no  child 
could  trace  a  faint  moor-track  through  the  im- 
penetrable brightness. 

For  three  days  and  nights  the  fog  hung  heavy 
over  land  and  sea.  The  sheep  in  the  little  fold 
bleated  piteously;  the  moor-birds  twittered  plain- 
tively. All  day  long  the  moors  rang  with  the 
booming  of  great  waves  on  invisible  snores.  The 
mother's  heart  ached;  she  lay  awake  at  night;  she 
spent  hours  staring  into  the  smothering  veil  of  mist. 
no 


King  of  the  Air 


One  morning  she  awoke  early.  The  moor-birds 
were  singing  as  though  their  throats  would  burst. 
The  sunlight  was  streaming  into  the  house.  It  was 
very  cold.  The  woman  opened  the  door;  before 
her  stretched  the  line  of  purple  hills,  sharp  and  bril- 
liant in  the  sunrise.  The  moor-birds  kept  singing; 
they  flocked  to  her  door.  She  threw  them  crumbs, 
but  they  fluttered  away,  looking  back  at  her  and 
calling. 

"To-wee!  to- wee!  to-wee-e-e!"  cried  the  little 
brown  birds.  They  fluttered  a  few  paces  away, 
watching  her  with  keen,  bright  eyes.  "To-wee! 
to-wee!  come  with  me!"  they  seemed  to  say. 

The  woman  understood.  She  followed  the  birds 
up  through  the  curving  moor-slopes  towards  the  sun- 
rise. Not  far  away  she  found  them  —  her  little 
ones  —  lying  beside  a  pool,  where  dry,  dead  cat- 
tails crackled  in  the  chill  wind.  The  children  were 
cold.  It  was  hard  to  unloose  their  arms,  which 
encircled  one  another.  The  woman  raised  the  small 
figures  in  her  strong  arms;  she  bore  them  upon  her 
bosom,  down  into  the  circle  of  sheltering  hills, 
home.  She  laid  the  little  bodies  upon  the  soft 
sheep-skins  beside  the  hearth-fire.  She  chafed  their 
hands  and  feet.  From  a  cupboard  she  took  a  small 
bottle  of  liquor  which  she  poured  between  their  cold 
lips.  Then  she  lay  down  beside  them,  holding  them 
close  to  her  warm  breast. 

An  hour  passed.  Then  two  pairs  of  arms  were 
raised,  feebly,  to  embrace  her;  two  little  voices 
whispered  "  mother!  " 

Outside  the  cabin,  in  the  brilliant  autumn  sun- 
shine, the  moor-birds  were  singing  a  joyous  song. 

Siasconset,  Mass.,  July,  igi2. 
Ill 


FRANCE  TO  THE  RESCUE 

(A  True  Story  of  the  Sea) 

Our  ship  was  the  Touraine,  bound  from  New 
York  to  Havre.  On  Thursday,  October  9th,  191 3, 
we  were  in  mid-ocean.  A  strong  wind  had  risen  the 
day  before,  and  increasing  in  fury  during  the  night, 
now  blew  with  the  force  of  a  hurricane.  But  the 
sky  was  blue  and  bright,  the  air  cool  and  clear. 
In  the  clouds  of  spray  that  dashed  upward  from  the 
ship's  bows,  rainbows  gleamed  and  sparkled.  It 
was  a  glorious  day! 

Suddenly  our  ship  changed  her  course.  She 
veered  to  the  north,  so  falling  into  the  very  trough 
of  the  sea.  Heaving  and  plunging,  rolling  and 
pitching,  at  the  top  of  her  speed  she  rushed  along. 
For  there  had  come  a  wireless  message  from  the 
Carmania  that  the  Volturno,  two  hundred  miles 
away,  was  on  fire  and  calling  for  help. 

Two  hundred  miles  away!  Almost  a  day's 
journey.  From  eight  o'clock  that  morning  until 
ten  at  night  the  Touraine  ploughed  her  way  through 
great  waves  that  threatened  every  instant  to  engulf 
her.  Her  every  fibre  throbbed  and  trembled  with 
the  terrific  pounding  of  her  engines.  With  a  de- 
112 


King  of  the  Air 


cided  "  lean  "  to  port,  and  a  heavy  cargo,  she  would 
lurch  over  to  her  left  side,  lie  like  lead  in  the  hollow 
of  the  waves  with  water  sweeping  her  rails,  and 
after  an  awful  moment  of  uncertainty  flounder  pain- 
fully back  to  starboard.  But  she  is  a  good  ship  and 
a  steady,  or  she  would  never  have  brought  us  safe 
to  the  end  of  that  wild  journey.  A  stranger  ship, 
seemingly  risen  from  the  sea,  for  a  few  hours  rode 
by  our  side,  bent  on  the  same  rescuing  errand.  It 
was  a  gallant  race,  this  race  with  death.  But  the 
goal  was  far,  and  the  Volturno,  prey  of  raging  fire, 
sport  of  furious  gales  —  God  pity  the  Volturno! 

All  day  the  Touraine  toiled  along,  righting  wind 
and  waves,  pulsing,  quivering,  straining  from  stem 
to  stern,  but  never  faltering  for  a  moment  in  her 
straight,  sure  course.  And  all  day  the  bright  sun 
shone,  the  mad  wind  sang,  and  a  thousand  brilliant 
colors  glittered  in  the  wild  sea.  But  as  evening 
fell  the  sky  became  overcast;  thick  clouds  hid  the 
moon;  wind  howled  in  the  rigging;  spray  drenched 
the  decks.  Out  in  the  dark,  monster  waves  leaped 
and  roared  about  the  ship  like  living  things.  It 
was  an  awful  night! 

Toward  nine  o'clock  it  was  reported  that  we  ap- 
proached the  Volturno  and  then,  as  the  decks  for- 
ward were  unsafe,  we  were  allowed  to  mount  the 
Captain's  bridge.  From  here  we  could  see,  low 
down  on  the  horizon,  a  red  mist,  a  nebula  of  fire. 
Out  of  the  dark  it  seemed  to  be  coming  toward  us, 
slowly  growing  larger  and  brighter,  lighting  up  the 
sky.  All  at  once  there  came  a  great  red  flare: 
there  had  been  a  tremendous  explosion  on  the 
Volturno!  Was  this  the  end,  and  after  her  noble 
effort,  was  our  good  ship  to  arrive  too  late? 
113 


King  of  the  Air 


An  hour  after  we  had  sighted  the  Volturno,  we 
were  standing  by.  It  was  a  dark  night;  but  by  her 
own  light  —  for  she  was  still  burning  —  we  could 
plainly  see  the  ravaged  vessel,  a  mass  of  leaping 
flames  fanned  fiercely  by  the  pitiless  blast.  All 
about  her,  in  the  form  of  a  half  moon,  lay  a  fleet 
of  great  vessels  brilliantly  lighted,  their  lofty  sterns 
heaving  high  in  the  air,  their  mighty  bows  plunging 
deep  into  the  sea.  They  were  watching  and  wait- 
ing, powerless  to  aid  the  doomed  ship  in  the  grip 
of  the  merciless  gale.  Low  down  on  the  water  we 
could  see  tiny  flashes  of  red  and  blue:  life-boats 
signalling  to  parent  ships;  while  majestically  ranged 
back  and  forth  a  leviathan  of  the  ocean,  the  Car- 
mania,  with  her  powerful  searchlight  making  a  safe 
pathway  for  the  little  boats.  Sometimes  the  full 
moon,  breaking  through  the  pack  of  clouds,  il- 
lumined the  scene  with  weird  splendor,  and  showed 
that  what  had  seemed  at  first  an  indistinct,  glim- 
mering mass  on  the  poop  of  the  Volturno,  was  in 
reality  a  crowd  of  struggling  human  beings.  The 
six  hundred  passengers  of  the  Volturno  were  still 
on  board! 

This  noble  fleet,  with  its  splendid  illumination, 
heaving  up  and  down;  in  its  midst  the  fiery  ship, 
scarlet  against  the  black  sky;  the  clouds  of  drift- 
ing smoke,  filling  the  air  with  a  smell  of  burning; 
the  fantastic  mingling  of  moonlight  and  firelight; 
the  stinging  of  the  salt  wind  in  our  faces;  the  sud- 
den warning  whistle,  as  one  vessel  drifted  too  near 
another;  and,  over  all,  the  roar  of  the  storm,  united 
in  an  impression  terrific  and  never  to  be  forgotten. 

We  did  not  know  then  that  some  of  the  Volturno 's 
life-boats  had  been  smashed  like  egg-shells  in  the 
114 


King  of  the  Air 


launching,  and  many  lives  lost.  But  our  Captain 
knew,  and  he  said  to  his  men,  "  I  cannot  order  you 
to  man  the  boats  and  go  out  to  the  Volturno.  It  is 
more  than  risk.  It  is  almost  certain  death.  I  do 
not  command  you  —  I  ask  for  volunteers!  " 

Forty  men  responded.  Instantly  preparations 
were  made  to  lower  a  boat.  For  a  moment  the 
small  craft  hung  face  to  face  with  us,  manned  by  a 
silent  company.  What  must  have  been  the  feel- 
ings of  those  men,  swinging  high  above  that  seeth- 
ing flood!  But  they  gave  no  sign.  At  the  Cap- 
tain's signal,  slowly  the  little  boat  began  its  perilous 
descent,  the  great  ship  reeling  this  way  and  that. 
If  ever  souls  prayed  with  intense  desire,  we  prayed 
God  for  those  lives  that  night.  At  first  the  life- 
boat swung  safely  outward  and  downward,  then,  at 
a  sudden  lunge  of  the  ship,  fell  crashing  against 
her  side.  There  were  wild  shouts  as  the  men 
fought  desperately  with  poles;  there  was  a  roar  of 
leaping  water  and  churning  foam;  at  last  the 
Touraine,  with  a  long  shudder,  staggered  back,  and 
the  life-boat,  bow  downward,  dived  like  a  bird  into 
the  sea  and  was  borne  away  on  the  crest  of  a  wave. 
A  speck  of  yellow  light  gleamed  out  of  the  dark- 
ness: she  was  safe!  Then  we  who  had  been  lean- 
ing far  over  the  ship's  side,  watching,  with  nerves 
tense,  this  wild  drama  of  the  sea,  burst  into  cries 
and  sobs,  while  shouts  of  "Bravo!"  "Bravo!" 
drowned  even  the  noise  of  the  storm. 

We  were  slowly  manoeuvering  up  and  down, 
trying  to  remain  near  our  small  boats,  when  all  at 
once  something  happened  which  froze  our  blood. 
Just  as  we  were  crossing  the  wake  of  the  Minne- 


115 


King  of  the  Air 


apolis,  suddenly,  without  warning,  the  big  steam- 
ship began  to  move  backward,  thrashing  the  water 
with  her  powerful  screw.  Instantly  our  Captain 
blew  his  whistle  and  checked  his  course.  But  the 
Minneapolis,  her  giant  stern  towering  above  us,  her 
mighty  propeller  whizzing  in  the  air,  backed  surely 
and  steadily  upon  us,  as  though  to  cut  us  in  two. 
Those  who  know  the  Touraine  will  never  forget 
her  siren-whistle.  Now  it  pierced  the  dark  with 
an  agonized  shriek.     But  the  other  paid  no  heed. 

So  far  the  events  of  this  night  had  seemed 
grotesque  and  fantastic,  like  images  in  a  bad  dream. 
Now,  with  the  backward  march  of  the  Minneapolis 
and  our  own  imminent  peril,  there  came  a  sudden 
revelation  of  the  reality  of  this  horrible  experience. 
It  seemed  that  there  was  to  be  a  second  tragedy. 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  great  steamship,  her 
mighty  poop  with  its  murderous  shaft  now  rearing 
aloft,  now  plunging  downward  with  terrible 
momentum.  We  could  see  the  horror-stricken 
faces  of  those  who  crowded  her  decks,  we  could 
hear  the  grinding  of  her  propeller  —  she  was  upon 
us!  Frantically  she  struggled:  she  lashed  the  sea, 
throwing  out  masses  of  hissing  steam;  she  roared 
in  her  wild  efforts.  Wind  and  sea  were  against 
her,  driving  her  back.  But  somehow,  not  fifty  feet 
away,  she  stopped.  Gradually  she  gained  headway, 
until  at  last  she  was  gone,  in  a  cloud  of  steam  and 
spray.     It  was  a  miraculous  escape. 

We  had  launched  two  other  life-boats,  and  now, 
as  there  had  been  no  sign  of  them  for  several  hours, 
we  began  burning  torches  of  colored  fire,  blue,  white 
and  red.     Soon  we  saw  a  small  boat  coming  along 


116 


King  of  the  Air 


at  furious  speed,  driven  by  the  blast.  Now  she 
swung  high  on  the  crest  of  a  wave,  now  she  was 
lost  to  view  in  the  sweep  of  the  seas.  Somebody 
called  out  "  Combien?  "  Faintly  came  the  answer: 
"  Trois."  A  dozen  men  had  risked  death  to  save 
three! 

But  the  danger  to  those  brave  sailors  was  not 
yet  past,  and  the  poor  fellows,  with  bodies  stiff  and 
fingers  frozen,  were  again  driven  to  a  hand-to-hand 
fight  with  the  ship,  staving  off  with  poles  and  oars 
whenever  a  great  roller  hurled  them  against  the  ves- 
sel's side.  Clear  above  the  noise  of  seething  waters 
sounded  the  cries:  "En  bas!" — "En  haut!" — 
"En  arriere!"  A  rope  ladder  was  lowered,  and 
the  wretched  castaways  were  dragged  up,  scarcely 
able  to  help  themselves.  A  wave  reached  after  one 
as  he  was  hanging  in  mid-air,  nearly  carrying  him 
away. 

Our  sailors  told  of  the  horrors  on  the  Volturno, 
seen  at  close  range;  the  difficulties  of  approach,  be- 
cause of  the  intense  heat,  the  suffocating  smoke,  and 
the  danger  of  being  sucked  under  her  stern  and  cut 
to  pieces  by  her  screw.  They  described  the  tumult 
among  the  terrified  passengers,  who,  scorched  by  the 
fire,  were  yet  afraid  to  jump  into  the  ocean  to  be 
saved.  A  few  who  had  jumped  overboard  were 
picked  up;  one  man,  leaping  into  the  boat,  had 
broken  his  legs. 

All  through  the  night  the  work  of  rescue  con- 
tinued. The  first  life-boat  started  off  again  with 
a  fresh  crew.  The  second  boat  returned  with  seven 
saved.  Once  the  crew  of  a  strange  life-boat  came 
aboard  with  their  half-dead   passengers,   and  from 

117 


King  of  the  Air 


cold  and  exhaustion  were  obliged  to  remain.  Some- 
times, through  utter  weariness,  our  men  were  forced 
to  rest  for  a  while  before  going  back  to  their  task. 
And  all  night  long  the  Volturno  burned  fiercely  in 
the  howling  gale. 

In  the  cold  dawn  one  of  our  boats  brought  in  a 
load  of  children.  Some  were  lifted  to  the  decks 
by  ropes  fastened  about  their  limp  little  figures;  a 
baby  was  drawn  up  in  a  basket.  Eager  hands  wel- 
comed them.  A  miserable  little  band  they  were, 
crying  piteously  for  their  mothers  and  refusing  to  be 
comforted. 

With  the  coming  of  daybreak  the  storm  abated. 
The  ocean  was  still  extremely  dangerous,  but  the 
difficulties  were  less  because  of  the  daylight.  The 
arrival  of  the  Narragansett  with  her  cargo  of  oil, 
which  she  poured  generously  upon  the  waves, 
facilitated  the  work  of  rescue.  By  ten  o'clock  every 
soul  had  been  taken  off  the  Volturno;  there  was 
nothing  more  to  be  done.  For  a  little  while  the 
ships  rested  quietly  upon  the  sea,  all  headed  to- 
ward the  derelict;  then  as  if  at  a  common  signal 
each  turned  about  and  went  her  way.  A  strange, 
impressive  sight,  the  dissolving  of  this  great  fleet 
brought  together  in  mighty  conclave  for  humanity's 
sake.  Soon  the  Volturno,  still  fiercely  burning,  was 
but  a  cloud  on  the  far  horizon.  So  we  left  her,  the 
sport  of  the  airs  of  heaven,  the  plaything  of  the  sea. 

Praise  without  stint  is  due  all  those  ships  who  so 
generously  answered  the  Volturno' s  call,  who  so 
unselfishly  toiled  through  that  terrible  day  and  still 
more  terrible  night:  to  the  Seidlitz,  whose  boats 
were  in  the  sea  when  those  of  other  ships  standing 


118 


King  of  the  Air 


by  feared  to  venture  into  the  boiling  waters;  to  the 
Grosser  Kurfurst,  the  Czar,  the  Carmania,  the 
Devonian,  the  Minneapolis,  the  Narragansett,  the 
Rappahanock,  the  Kroonland ;  noble  ships  all.  But 
for  the  Touraine  every  witness  to  her  gallant  con- 
duct must  wish  to  speak  a  special  word.  Honor 
to  the  brave  commander  of  the  Touraine,  and  to  the 
other  officers  who  so  daringly  braved  the  strong  sea ; 
honor  to  those  forty  sailors,  rough  men  but  true  of 
heart,  who  answered  so  readily  their  Captain's  call 
for  volunteers;  honor  to  the  Touraine,  the  last  — 
through  no  fault  of  her  own  —  to  come  to  the  rescue 
of  the  Volturno,  yet  the  first  to  save  a  large  number 
of  her  passengers;  honor  to  the  French  people,  who 
in  that  terrible  test  gave  the  world  an  example  of 
heroism  so  splendid. 


January,  1914,  Paris. 


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